


Courting Sherlock

by OTPmorelike2000truepairings



Series: To Court an Omega [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Mycroft, Omega Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 11:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 60,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8843437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OTPmorelike2000truepairings/pseuds/OTPmorelike2000truepairings
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant Omega who never had a need for an Alpha. Once he meets John Watson, he might just change his mind.





	1. Ghosts of the Past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johhlockluv3r](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=johhlockluv3r).



Sherlock Holmes was nobody's idea of a traditional Omega. The seventeen year old rejected Alpha suitors outright, though at his age he was already expected to be bonded. After he sent a string of female lovers away in tears from his cruel deductions, his parents decided to have males pursue him. After all, their son had always needed a firm hand to discipline him, perhaps he needed a male Alpha. Sherlock took this challenge and rose above it, he insulted and overall bullied each man until they left him alone. (What Sherlock never told was how uncomfortable the men made him with their lewd comments and sordid promises of what they would do to him, the way they would force a bond on him, keep him bred with pups, and so on.) His parents viewed this as a disgrace, Sherlock saw it as the ultimate victory. 

Fortunately for Sherlock, his older brother was slightly more sympathetic to his plight. He had quickly managed to ingratiate himself into the government, moving up in the ranks and subsequently gaining more power. Also an Omega, Mycroft Holmes had no time nor worries about finding an Alpha. Yes it was what was expected, but Mycroft Holmes was Going Places, as people always said (though what places his brother was going Sherlock could never be sure of) so he wasn't forced to find someone who would coddle to his every whim, and generally annoy the crap out of him trying to keep him happy in their home with a brood of pups. Sherlock's parents understood their eldest son was too busy with his career for a family, but they could not comprehend why their youngest didn't want an Alpha. Mycroft did, which meant that while he and Sherlock did not get along, they did have an understanding of each other that no one else did. Due to this understanding of the siblings, Sherlock had run away and moved in with Mycroft last year after an uproar with their parents, and had never left. 

Mycroft's job sent him to Afghanistan after Sherlock had been with Mycroft for a year. Rather than be sent back to his parents, Sherlock convinced Mycroft to bring him along. This was how the young Omega found himself observing the fine troops of England beside his elder brother. 

Watching the troops was boring. They were a well-oiled machine, yes, but if Sherlock was truly interested in seeing that he'd watch a military movie. 

Abruptly his spine stiffened and he inhaled a huge breath. A sweet smell permeated the air. A mixture of peppermint tea, gunpowder, and fabric softener dryer sheets. Sherlock had never smelled anything so amazing in all his life. He searched subtly through the group of sweaty soldiers, but couldn't decide which one emitted that glorious scent. 

Meanwhile, John Watson was trying to focus on his army drills. At the signal, he transitioned smoothly into his wolf from. Where the short Captain once stood was now a brown-blonde wolf with piercing blue eyes. As a soldier, John liked his wolf form for its strength. The doctor in him appreciated the odd color of fur and eyes which seemed to make the wounded trust him more. 

John morphed back into human, glancing up at the two Omegas who were watching them impassively. If you ever wanted to find a way to convince a bunch of military men to show off, bring Omegas that smelled like the ones before them. Gorgeous. 

John shook off that distracting thought, throwing himself into the drills. 

After watching the soldiers, Mycroft took Sherlock back to their home. Sherlock came quietly, which was a sign that his baby brother was locked away in his mind. 

"Mycroft, did you smell that delicious smell as the soldiers trained?"

"I didn't smell anyone particularly."

Sherlock doesn't answer. "What did they smell like?" Mycroft asks, trying to engage his brother. 

"Gunpowder." Mycroft snorts in amusement. "Dryer sheets. And peppermint tea."

"That's a really...unique mixture."

"For a unique Alpha with an even more unique Omega," answers Sherlock. 

"You've never met said Alpha, are you certain it's wise to get attached so quickly? Remember Redbeard. Caring is not an advantage." 

"Speaking of, when are you planning to inform Mummy you are never going to settle down and bear pups?"

Mycroft takes the obvious distractor with grace. "With luck, never. Or perhaps, if I'm not lucky, when she's on her deathbed."

"You need to find an Alpha immediately. This way she'll give up hope for me to have children."

"Not going to happen. She's enamored with the idea of a younger, better-behaved version of you running around."

Sherlock sneers. "The child will have my DNA. It's far more likely the child would be a worse hellion than I ever was as a child."

"Don't sell yourself short, Brother Mine," teases Mycroft lightly. "You were a terrible force of nature in your own right, the devil reincarnate."

Sherlock doesn't answer. In fact, he doesn't speak again until after dinner. "I don't want an Alpha, Mycroft. Or pups."

Mycroft sighs. "I know."

"Do you?"

"No. Caring is not an advantage." Both brothers fall silent, thinking on the past. Mycroft's words ring in their ears, though in a deeper, more authoritative voice than his. 

*Flashback*  
It's a day they both recall like it was yesterday. Siger Holmes was on the rampage yet again. His youngest son was causing trouble in school, and had been expelled from the second school this year. As he walked through the door, he had expected to find his wife waiting for him, his oldest son making dinner, and his youngest waiting apologetically with a wonderful explanation as to why he'd gotten expelled yet again. 

Instead, his wife was nowhere in sight. His eldest son was reading a book while simultaneously dueling his youngest in front of the fireplace. 

"Alas, mangy cur! Ye've been defeated! Walk the plank!" roared Sherlock. "Redbeard and I have sunk your ship!" 

Redbeard turned a circle directly in front of Mycroft, squatted, and marked his territory. That was it! Siger Holmes ran over to the dog and kicked him. There was a loud snapping sound and the dog fell over. Sherlock started screaming. Siger backhanded him. "Shut up! You were expelled again, you don't get to come home and play!"

"You killed my dog!"

"Caring is not an advantage. You better settle down right now, boy, or I will make your life miserable. No Alpha is going to want a nasty, condescending little b***h like you." Sherlock burst into tears, running to Mycroft for comfort. Siger turned to his oldest son. "And you! Why isn't supper made?" 

"Mummy said she'd do it, sir. I have a large economics project due this week and-"

"Do not make your mother do your work for any reason. I expect better from you!" 

Mycroft visibly shrank a bit. "Yes, sir."

"Give me your book." Mycroft handed it over reluctantly, only to watch in agony as the book was tossed into the roaring fire. "Nothing is more important than your household, Mycroft. Keep it in line, then do other things." He raised his hand to his son's face, and Mycroft flinched away. This angered Siger, so he punched his eldest son after yanking the youngest out of his arms. Mycroft fell, directly into the flames. Then he walked out. Sherlock ran over to Mycroft the second it was safe, sobbing incoherently, but the damage to both boys was already done, and couldn't be washed away with tears.  
*End Flashback*

Mycroft realized he was tracing the silver scars of his burns from that day, so he forced his hands to stop by folding them together. He had gone into the government to prove a point-Mycroft Holmes would never have an Alpha, and he would certainly never have a household full of children to maintain. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock didn't want an Alpha because he had learned that Alphas were vicious people who would kill anyone you held dear. It was a deeply-rooted fear of his that any child he had would be abused or murdered. No, Sherlock Holmes would never have an Alpha- he had a Mycroft and that was almost the same thing, but far less threatening.

Under the same Afghan moon, John Watson kept getting distracted thinking of the smell of Omega from earlier. The scent had been a mixture of vanilla and strawberries with just a faint hint of something antiseptic beneath, which made him smell even better. 

"Yo, John, let's go! The guys are here!" John's best friend Sebastian Moran yelled. John roused himself from his thoughts and headed to the bar with his fellow soldiers.


	2. Bars and First Heats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you've already read this one, it was brought to my attention that the publication date never updated for this chapter. Merry Christmas!

It's eleven o'clock and John is just finishing his first beer. He's been out for a few hours at this point, but drinking slowly because he knows he's a lightweight. His friends are either very drunk or on their way there. 

John inhales, trying to focus on drinking slowly. As soon as he catches a whiff of the delicious Omega smell from earlier, he quickly changes his mind, abandoning his drink to swivel on his stool and hunt the Omega. 

"What'cha lookin' a', Jawn?" slurs Sebastian, clapping his friend on the shoulder. 

"Nothing, really," John answers vaguely. He thinks he's found the Omega emitting that lovely smell, a tall yet still somehow delicate-looking thin boy who's bloody attractive. John thinks he looks familiar, then places him as one of the gentlemen who had watched them perform earlier in the day. 

Unfortunately, Sebastian has followed John's gaze. "Tha's one g'd-sm'llin' Omega," comments Sebastian. John nods. "C'mon, les go tal' wif 'im." Before John can protest his friend is yanking him off his stool toward the Omega. 

The Omega in question knocks back the glass he ordered, sets it on the counter, and twirls away. Literally twirls, the movement so graceful John's mouth actually goes dry. Yep, he's got it bad.

"Hey!" Sebastian calls, waving a hand awkwardly at the teen. Up close, John can't decide how old he looks. "Mah frieeend th'nks ya hawt."

"I am," the boy says bluntly. "I'm also not interested in him, in spite of the stereotype of all Omegas wanting a doctor for a husband."

"Wha' 'bou' me?"

"If I've no interest in a doctor, why on Earth would I be interested in a sniper?"

"How'd you know all that?" John asks the boy quietly. 

"Obvious, isn't it?" At John's blank look, he continues on. "The way you hold your hands-that's the way a surgeon holds his hands. You've got a stitch from sutures here-" the boy invades John's space to pluck it off his sleeve "and the coffee stain on your shirt which you didn't even notice is light enough that you can only be a surgeon from the army hospital."

"Brilliant! That's incredible!"

Now, for the first time, the boy looks surprised. "It is?"

"Yes! You're fantastic!"

"That's not what people usually say."

"What do they normally say?"

"Piss off," he answers, smiling a bit crookedly at John. John finds himself grinning back. 

"What's your name?"

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sherlock Holmes. I'm Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"I know," Sherlock tells him, smirking. "Now if you'll excuse me." He moves past them, working his way to the door. 

"Hey, can I walk you back to your house?" John asks. At Sherlock's weird look, he elaborates, "Don't worry, I fully know the word 'no.' But the streets of Afghanistan are dangerous for foreigners right now."

"No thanks." He leaves, the sweet smell of a Omega following him. Something about that really bothers John, though it takes a minute to realize why. An Omega that smelled that good-he's going into heat. Into heat right now, in a foreign country that doesn't have good relations with the English. At best, the boy will be raped, at worst, murdered. John bolts out the door of the bar, following the Omega into the darkness. 

"Sherlock! Sheeerrrrlock!" John shouts as he pounds down the street. "Sherlock!"

A quiet whimper, off to the right in a dark alley, helps him find the Omega. He plunges into the alley, morphing into his wolf form and snarling. He attacks the wolf that meets him, quickly winning the fight and asserting his dominance. The next two that charge him are knocked out of the way, and they run off yelping. 

Sherlock watches this, panicking as he watches the soldier he just met rip into the other Alphas. 'Run!' His brain orders, so he takes off down the alley as fast as he can. 

The sound of pursuit reaches his ears, and he runs faster, trying to fly off the ground to safety. There is a loud roar, then silence. Sherlock doesn't look back. He's trying desperately to scale the alley wall, but even with his lanky form it's too high. 

John turns back to human and goes to Sherlock. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you?" The boy doesn't answer, but stops trying to scramble up the wall and throws his arms around John and doesn't let go. "Sherlock, did they hurt you?" John persists. 

"No. You came in time."

John begins walking with Sherlock still around his neck. He cradled his Omega carefully, marveling at how light the boy is. 

"Those men said I'm going into heat," Sherlock told him. 

"I figured it out moments after you left. That's why I came."

Sherlock shudders. "I'm glad you did."

"Me too," John says, fingers tightening possessively, "me too."

At a loss for what to do with the Omega and not wanting to get them both killed, John carries the Omega into his house. It's a tiny army house, but easy to protect, and his Omega will be safe. Sherlock's smell permeates the house the moment he closes the door. 

"So I'm guessing this is your first heat?" John asks. The snarling Alpha lurks beneath the surface, pleading for a chance to bite the delicious-smelling boy in front of him, but John determinedly tamps it down. 

The boy nods, then abruptly crosses his arms and yanks off his shirt. 

"Um, whatcha doin', Sherlock?" 

"My shirt hurts my skin." Sure enough, John can see Sherlock has a bit of a rash breaking out on his otherwise clear creamy skin. 

"You must be sensitive," John says. 

Sherlock launches himself at John, and it's only John's quick reflexes that allows him to catch the boy. "What are you doing?"

"Smell so good. I want you."

"The only reason you want me is your heat. Like I told you, I understand the word 'no.'"

"You're a doctor, you should also understand consent. This is me consenting."

"No, this is you drugged by your own hormones. Which means your consent isn't valid because you're being drugged by your hormones," argues John. Sherlock tries to jump him again, but John scoops his legs out from underneath him and carries him. Sherlock begins to fight him, kicking and squirming. 

"C'mon, let's go to bed." 

Sherlock relaxes instantly, going limp in John's arms. "Mmm, yesss," he purrs. John smirks to himself. At least the boy is relaxed now, even if he will be a terror once he realizes he hasn't convinced John to come to bed with him. 

John gently dumps the Omega onto the bed, then turns and literally bolts out the door like he's running a 400 meter for the Olympics. He pulls the door shut behind him, then grabs his gun and settles in front of the Omega's door. He will keep his Omega safe. 

John can hear Sherlock on the other side of the door. From the whimpers and scratching he hears the heat is getting worse. "John? Help, please help. It hurts." John's Alpha reminds him that a knot will undoubtedly help the boy feel better, but John is not a rapist, and has helped several other Omegas through heats just like this, this one will NOT be the one to break him, irregardless of how good he smells. He wants this Omega badly, but not enough to risk his career for one bite. Once there is not a consent issue, he will bite the boy then. 

Heaving a put-upon sigh as Sherlock continues calling him, John morphs into a wolf to be certain he can't open the door. He's determined to do his best by Sherlock, since his Alpha side has declared this boy is his mate. The Alpha demands to sink it's teeth into the small Omega. 'He said no," John reminds himself. 'Besides, right now he needs the friendly doctor, not the roaring Alpha.'

John slumps against the door, tired but alert. He will protect his Omega, no matter the cost.


	3. Heat's End

One week later, the smell of intense Omega heat abates, and John relaxes for the first time in a while. 

"Dr. Watson? I think the heat is over, may I please come out?" John unlocks his stiff joints and opens the door. Sherlock staggers out, looking pale and sickly. 

John walks the boy over to the table, looping his arm around Sherlock's to support him in case he falls. When they get close, he loops his ankle around the chair and pulls it out. "Sit. What do you like to eat?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't like to eat. At all. It's distracting, disrupts my thinking."

"Well, you're going to today. You just got out of heat, you need to eat. You can pick something if you want, but I need you to eat."

Sherlock frowns in clear disagreement, but shrugs again. "Whatever you feel like making, I guess."

John goes over and begins making a full English breakfast. He has the feeling Sherlock knows what he's doing when he lets out a sigh, but he gets up to help. 

"Sit down!" John orders in his Captain voice. Sherlock's eyes widen and he slides back into his seat. "Sorry," John says, realizing he's scared the boy. "I just don't want you to fall."

"I was going to help, but I really don't know how to cook anything."

John smiles. "Don't worry about it."

"Do you have a shower? I smell odd."

"Yeah, it's back to the right. Hang on until after breakfast and I'll walk you there."

"I can walk by myself."

"Between the two of us, which has experience with Omegas in heat?"

"You do, I assume. You are a doctor."

"Yes, so please accept that I do know what I'm talking about and let me care for you. You're weak, like it or not, and I don't want you getting hurt."

Sherlock slumps in his seat. He doesn't move until John places breakfast in front of him. Then he picks up his fork. He proceeds to shovel half the meal in without pause, then finally declares, "I'm done," and drops his fork to his plate with an obnoxious clatter. 

John stands up then though he's not done with breakfast and loops his arms around Sherlock. "Just so we're clear, you're not going to help me in the shower," Sherlock states, though his tone sounds uncertain. 

John smirks. "Yours wouldn't be the first naked body I've seen." Sherlock stiffens, causing John to feel remorseful. "Sorry, bad time to make a joke, but I am a doctor. That was the point. Honestly though, if I wanted to see you naked I could've by now." Sherlock glares in response. "Shutting up now," John tells him. 

John leads Sherlock into the bathroom, sitting him on top of the toilet. "Right then. I'll grab you some clothes. They definitely won't fit, but I'm not letting you parade around naked while you're waiting for your clothes to dry."

"To dry? I'm not planning to shower in my clothes!" Sherlock exclaims in astonishment. 

"No, I was going to wash them for you."

"Oh," Sherlock answered. "John?"

"Hmmm?"

"What do you want?" Seeing John's look, he hurries on. "I've interacted with other Alphas my own age. They would've hurt me during my heat. Hurt, bonded, and bred. But you didn't do that. I thought maybe you were waiting until I was in my right mind, but you haven't tried to force me into anything yet. So what's your goal? Money for a rehab for your alcoholic brother? Power, trying to kidnap me? I just don't understand, and I don't like not knowing."

John stares at him. Sherlock is hunched in on himself, looking significantly smaller than he did in the bar a week ago. He looks uncertain and vulnerable. "I'm not like that. Not everyone is out to get something from you. I'm going to get you clothes now." 

He leaves the room and goes to search for clothes. What little the Omega has told him makes him wonder about what he's experienced, and about the people who have courted him in the past. 

He finds the clothes he wants and takes them in to Sherlock. "Here."

"Thank you." 

John has just finished breakfast and is starting the dishes when a frantic hammering is heard. "Just a minute," John calls. 

His front door opens and John hears Sebastian yell, "John? Where you at?"

"Kitchen!" He yells back. Sebastian lumbers in. "Sit down. You eat?"

"Yeah. Listen, we're heading into the countryside today. Young Omega kid got lost. You remember the one that watched us train last week? Kid went missing the same day; brother only reported him missing today. Well-to-do family though, so everyone is panicking."

"Kid's fine," John says. "Wait, how old is this boy?"

"Seventeen."

John thinks it over. It surprises him Sherlock is seventeen, mainly because an Omega like him should've been bonded at least two years ago, or even more. It wasn't uncommon for wealthy Omegas to be bonded at age thirteen, since they were hitting puberty then. Strange. 

"John? This shirt doesn't really fit," Sherlock reports, wandering into the kitchen. 

"Well, I'll be!" exclaims Sebastian. "You've got him!"

"Got who?" Sherlock asks. 

"Your house reeks of heat, John. Did you bond him?"

"No."

"What? Are you out of your mind? Gorgeous thing like that?"

"I'm standing right here, talk to me, not about me," Sherlock snaps. 

John chuckles. Recalcitrant, then. That certainly explained a lot. 

"Sorry gorgeous. I get stupid when seeing such a pretty Omega."

"You're stupid anyway, Omega present or not," retorts Sherlock. John laughs. 

Sebastian does too. "It was a joke, honey. Sorry to have offended you. I'll talk to you, next time."

John goes off to find a new shirt, handing it to Sherlock. The boy changes quickly, throwing his shirt at Sebastian. "Keep it, it's the closest you're going to get to an Omega."

Sebastian laughs. "I like you, kid. What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"You're wonderful, Sherlock Holmes."

Now Sherlock looks skeptical. "No, I'm not."

"Sure you are. Great sense of humor, unapologetic about who you are, you're stronger than the average Omega, kid."

Sherlock snorts. "Obviously. Most people don't see it that way."

"Then most people are idiots."

Sherlock ducks his head to hide his smile, but John sees it. "For a sniper, you're alright," Sherlock offers. 

"For a sassy rich Omega, you're okay too."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asks. 

"Uproar looking for you," reports Sebastian. "The guy you came with is panicking that you're dead."

"Mycroft! John we have to go, we have to go now, he'll be so upset-"

"Hang on! Slow down and breathe! As soon as your clothes are dry, we'll go. Who's Mycroft?"

"My brother. I live with him." John arches an eyebrow. Stranger and stranger, this Sherlock Holmes. Omegas typically aren't permitted to live anywhere other than with their parents or a bondmate. 

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock's clothes are dry, and they are heading down the road to Mycroft. John and Sebastian deliver Sherlock to the front door. 

As they approach, the door is flung open and the tall auburn man who had accompanied Sherlock earlier in the week came flying out. "Sherlock! Running off again, no note, I presumed the worst!"

"I'm alright, Mycroft. Besides, 'caring is not an advantage.'"

Mycroft's jaw jumps, but he doesn't acknowledge the odd comment. "Yes, well, thank you for finding him," Mycroft says, finally addressing John and Sebastian. "We need to leave, come on Sherlock." And without another word, the mysterious enigmas that are Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes vanish into the house, leaving a very confused John and Sebastian on their doorstep.


	4. Perfect Match

Mycroft was feeling frustrated after finding Sherlock again. His brother, normally unwilling to speak in the first place, became a total recluse. He wouldn't speak of his time with John, only to reassure Mycroft that nothing unsavory had happened. 

"He didn't bond me. Wasn't even in the same room as me for nine-tenths of the heat, except when he rescued me from the Alphas. It wasn't for lack of me trying though. I propositioned him, Mycroft. Why? Why did he turn me down?" Then he stormed off. 

That was a week ago. Since then, they had returned to London. Sherlock promptly ran into his room and squirreled away. Mycroft hadn't seen him since. 

"Sherlock! Sherlock! This is a bit ridiculous now, open the door!" demanded Mycroft. "Sherlock, you have until the count of ten until I break down this door!" Sherlock doesn't come to the door like Mycroft expects. His brother, always so fastidious about his privacy, didn't come, so Mycroft throws his shoulder through the door. 

It hurts, but not as much as it does when Mycroft finally enters the room and finds his baby brother unresponsive. Mycroft screams and dials the ambulance, praying to a God he doesn't even believe in that his brother will be alright.  
.............................................................  
Sherlock has been feeling depressed ever since they left Afghanistan. Thinking about John only seems to make it worse, he notes dully. 

Something is wrong, there is a small part of him that knows that. He doesn't eat, worse than usual. He doesn't sleep. At all. He doesn't experiment, even though there's all kinds of interesting mold growing on the toes now. It's just boring. 

He lays in bed and stops moving completely. He wonders why John didn't want to bond him. It's strange to him. Plenty of men and women alike told him in explicit detail what they would do to him when he went into heat. John was different. He wouldn't even come near Sherlock. Why? Plenty of people have wanted Sherlock for his body, so why didn't John?

He can feel everything slowing. Metabolism, heart rate, thinking ability, voluntary muscle control. He should probably call Mycroft, but he just doesn't care. John doesn't want him. With that final depressing thought, he drifts off.  
.............................................................  
The hospital is a flurry of activity, all of it surrounding Sherlock. Mycroft desperately thinks that maybe Sherlock is doing this for attention, but he quickly tamps that thought down. That's ridiculous, there's clearly more to it than that. 

"Mr. Holmes? I'm Doctor Sawyer, the doctor in charge of Sherlock. None of the blood tests have shown us anything, which means it's not an overdose. Has he had heats?"

"Just last week he had his first."

"I see. Did he come into contact with an Alpha? Perhaps even in a nonsexual manner?"

Mycroft turns red. He hadn't expected to discuss Sherlock's sex life or lack there of. "There was one. Rescued him from other Alphas, took him back to his house, protected him throughout the duration of his heat. Never bonded him, refused all advances-the stereotypical fairytale Alpha most Omegas only dream of."

"I see. Are you familiar with the term 'Perfect Match' as referred to by Omega biologists, Mr. Holmes?"

"No."

"A Perfect Match are people who are quite literally soulmates. They are perfectly suited to each other in every way. During a heat, an Omega and their Perfect Match would be driven to bond in a much more intense manner than usual. Occasionally though, the Alpha and Omega don't bond, for whatever reason. The Omega then goes into a state of severe depression, because in essence they have been denied by their soulmate. So your brother will be very easy to cure, so long as you know who his Perfect Match is and bring them here to bond Sherlock immediately."

"I can do that," replies Mycroft. "Why haven't I heard of this Perfect Match thing before?"

"It's fairly rare. It is more common to run in families, though. Are you bonded, Mr. Holmes?"

"Y-yes," Mycroft stuttered. 

The doctor leveled a look at him. 

"No," he corrected. 

"Something to keep in mind. For now though, I'd suggest you find your brother's Alpha."

She left, and Mycroft picked up his phone. "Anthea? I'm going to need all the information about the Fifth Northberland Fusiliers you have. I need to find a soldier named John."


	5. Bonded

John was running through medical drills with his friends when a fellow captain came running up. "Watson, phone!" The man barked, handing him a slip with a British phone number written on it.

"Sir?" 

"Phone. Call from high up, much higher than we can ignore. Get the phone, Watson."

"Yes sir," John agrees, jogging off. He runs to the phone and dials the number. 

"Hello?"

"Yes, is this John Watson?" 

"Speaking."

"John, this is British government official Mycroft Holmes."

"Sherlock's brother?"

"Yes. A situation has arisen which requires your expertise. You are to fly back to London immediately. There is a flight leaving the base in one hour. You will be expected to be on it. I will meet you at the private airport as soon as you arrive. You will be briefed on the situation and sent in. I'll see you then."

It sounds like the Omega has everything planned out already, so John just says, "Yes sir. Goodbye, sir."

He jogs off to his house, gathering clothes he will need. As he's putting clothes into his suitcase, someone pounds on his door. "It's open!"

"Hey, I just heard you're off to London on an emergency. Is it Harry?"

"No. It was Sherlock Holmes' older brother. He was vague, so I don't know what is actually wrong."

"Sherlock? That pretty smart Omega boy?"

"That's the one."

"Hope he's okay. Call me when you know anything, alright?"

"Yeah sure," John says distractedly. "I'm off."

"Call me. I mean it. I liked that kid too."  
.............................................................  
There is a sleek black car waiting once John's helicopter comes in. The tall Omega man who John recalls to be Sherlock's brother leans against the car propped by an umbrella. 

John approaches and snaps to attention, saluting the man. "Sir."

Mycroft doesn't look at him, but passes him a file. John begins reading. It starts with a discussion on Perfect Matches, which John was taught about in his courses at St. Bart's Hospital. He reads for a review, then switches to the next pages. A medical file on William Holmes, though the picture is the boy John knows as Sherlock. Is Sherlock undercover and in danger?

"I don't understand. Is Sherlock undercover for the government?"

"No."

"Why is his name changed?"

"Oh yes. My brother's full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"I see. So the government plans to use him to find out about Perfect Matches?"

"No. My brother is the Perfect Match. He is currently unconscious in Bart's Hospital, due to having a mate who didn't bond him when he went into heat."

"Oh. Oh my god," John muttered. "It's me. The only way to reverse it is to bond him. Wasn't planning that yet, but okay. Okay. Can your car take me to Bart's?"

"Yes indeed. The car will take us to Bart's immediately."

John gets into the car, reading the file better. Sherlock's vitals are within normal limits, though he's underweight. Surprise, surprise.

The car arrives at the hospital, and John follows Mycroft in to the room where Sherlock is lying. His heart lurches, and he rushes forward, dropping the bag of clothes onto the floor. "Sherlock? It's John Watson. I'm here now, and I'm going to bond you really soon." Impulsively, he reaches out and runs a hand through the boy's inky black curls. Then he jumps up again. 

"I'm going to need you out," he tells Mycroft politely. "Also, I'm going to need supplies. Give me five minutes?"

At Mycroft's nod, he strides out of the room. The supply closet hasn't changed location or code, so John easily enters the room. He grabs a few pillowcases, some bandages, soap and other cleaning supplies for Sherlock's bond bite, and then he takes a deep breath and grabs the things he'll need to bond Sherlock. He leaves and runs to the clean linens room, breaking in quickly to grab a heated blanket. Then he returns to the, no, to his Omega. 

Entering the room, John is struck by how small his Omega looks. Asleep like this, he looks much younger. John gets him physically comfortable, lying the blanket over him and adjusting pillows until his head and hips are both propped at an acceptable level. 

He turns to Mycroft. "You should probably leave now, sir."

Mycroft stands and moves to his brother's side. He leans down to whisper quietly to Sherlock- two words John doesn't hear: "I'm sorry." He turns and leaves, pulling the door shut unobtrusively behind him. 

John turns off the alarms, lowers the bed, and crawls in, tenderly undressing his Omega. The first thing he notices, besides the overwhelming skinniness, is the round cigarette burns in odd patterns on his torso. John growls. Abuse, clearly, probably from Mycroft. Once Sherlock is bonded, John will make sure his brother has to stay away. His Omega will not be hurt again.  
.............................................................  
Sherlock wakes up and groans. Everything hurts. He has tubes in his nose and his arms, so he's clearly in the hospital. Probably Bart's. His neck burns, but when he tries to touch it, he encounters a bandage. 

'No, no, God no, please please God no,' Sherlock thinks. He wants to get up, wants to run away, somewhere where Mycroft won't track him with CCTV and his-please, no! Anything else but this!- new mate can't find him. 

John had just stepped away to discuss Sherlock's changes with Doctor Sawyer when he feels a growing sense of panic through the bond. The sense of 'other, alien, but respond and protect all the same' alerts him to the fact that Sherlock is awake. He excuses himself and runs down the hall, knocking on the door in warning as he blasts in. 

Sherlock is sitting up in bed, methodically working off the tape strips to the IV. "Hey, stop that!" John says. 

"I just want it off," Sherlock responds. 

"I know that, and once we get permission from Doctor Sawyer I'll pull it out."

"This tube too," Sherlock orders, gesturing to the NG tube in his nose.  
"I'm awake, I'll eat now on my own." He turns his attention to the whiteboard, on which the date is written to help orient patients. "It's the fifth? It was the thirtieth the last I remember. That means I've been unconscious for seven days. Why am I here, Doctor Watson? But more importantly, why are you here? You were in Afghanistan."

"Awake, alert, and oriented to time, place, and person," John's doctor mind fills in helpfully. No mental damage, at least at first glance. 

"You are part of a Perfect Match. Do you know what that is?"

Sherlock nods yes. "So I went unconscious due to lack of a bond from you during my heat. You had to bond me to revive me."

"Long story short, yes."

"Where's Mycroft?" John had really been hoping to avoid that question. How to explain to the boy that John had had him banned due to the signs of abuse Sherlock exhibited? "He had a government thing," John offers in explanation. 

"Mmm, good. Glad he's carrying on life as usual. Caring is not an advantage." Seeming placated, Sherlock collapses back onto the bed. "Get these tubes out of me, then go away."

"I can't just go away, Sherlock. We bonded, remember?"

"Of course. But maybe we can just share heats or something. No need to inconvenience us both more," he mumbles, dropping off to sleep. 

Meanwhile, across town, Mycroft Holmes is desperately trying to get information about his brother, with absolutely no success. 

He's been on the phone with several nurses and doctors alike, only to finally have one tell him, "I'm sorry sir, you're no longer the legal guardian of Mr. Holmes, and his bonded has requested we not give out information to anyone."

Once he hangs up, he orders Anthea to help him figure out a way around John Watson.  
.............................................................  
Sherlock wakes up again in a few hours, around seven in the evening. He looks around the room. "John, where's Mycroft?"

John winces internally. "He stopped by while you were sleeping."

"No, he didn't, you're lying. Why are you lying?"

"Sherlock, the scars on your body are suggestive of abuse. We banned Mycroft from the hospital in order to protect you. We want to keep you safe."

"What? You banned him? No! I want Mycroft! I'm going to see him!" Sherlock yells. He leaps from the bed, yanking out his IV and making blood spurt everywhere. 

"Sherlock, calm down," John says, trying not to upset the boy more. He plants himself in front of the door as Sherlock is distracted ripping out his NG tube. 

"No! I want to see my brother!" Sherlock looks up, gasps dramatically, and rushes to the window instead. "No, no, let me out!" 

"Security!" John bellows. "Nurse, get me one milligram of Lorazepam administered IM, stat! Security!"

Upon hearing John shout orders to drug/sedate him, Sherlock freaks. He claws desperately at the window. John has never been more thankful in his life to have windows that can't open in a hospital-typically to prevent a suicidal patient from being successful, but in this case it works well to keep agitated Omegas from taking a flying leap out the window. "Mycroft! Help me!" Sherlock shrieks, and John's heart breaks for him. 

The security guards rush in and pin Sherlock. A nurse comes with them, and though Sherlock is kicking with all his might, she jabs him with a needle and he goes limp. Seconds later, the world goes dark.


	6. Lestrade

The next time Sherlock wakes up, he wisely takes in his surroundings as much as he can before opening his eyes. Someone else is in the room, based on the breathing he can hear. Somebody had removed the annoying nose tube, but the IV was still in. He was tied down, though, which did not make him happy. 

"I know you're awake," John says. "You can open your eyes."

Sherlock's eyes snap open angrily. "What do you want?"

"Do you want food or water?"

"Not unless you'll let me throw it at you," he answers. 

John sighs. "Look, I know you're mad at me, but I didn't know what else to do. You were panicking and left me with no choice."

Sherlock sighs. "If I promise to behave, will you let me out of these restraints?"

"In a bit," John tells him. 

"No, now," demands Sherlock. 

"No. Once we've determined you're not going to hurt anyone or yourself we will let you out. Threatening to throw things at me didn't help you."

Sherlock tries to manipulate his body to have a strop, but he can't twist. "I hate you," he tells John viciously. 

"Yeah, I know," John says wearily. 

"When can I get out?"

"An hour."

Sherlock falls silent moodily, glaring at the wall because he doesn't want to look at John. To look at John is to acknowledge the man's new place in his life, and he certainly won't be doing that.  
.............................................................  
John isn't completely unkind, he doesn't mention that Sherlock threatened to throw things at him when the nurses return, so he is left out of the restraints. The IV is removed too, which thrills Sherlock. 

Once they leave, Sherlock glances at John. "Thank you. For not telling them I threatened you."

"You're welcome."

"And for saving my life."

"It's fine." The two lapse into silence again for several hours. 

At lunchtime, Sherlock requests (demands imperiously) a slice of pizza and biscuits. They aren't having that in the hospital, but once Sherlock promises John he will actually eat if it is brought, he goes to the cafeteria to get the food. 

As soon as John is gone down the elevator, Sherlock is up, out of his room, and standing at the elevator. 

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Dr. Sawyer, John left to get me pizza in the cafeteria, but I miss him. I need to go get him, right now."

The woman's suspicious gaze changes instantly. "Of course honey! I'll help you find him!"

They get into the elevator and go down to the first floor. Sherlock feels trapped; the goal was to leave while John's getting the food, but now he can't. What to do, what to do?

"Sherlock? What are you doing?" At the sound of John's voice, Sherlock panics. He darts away from Dr. Sawyer, jumping onto the nearest elevator. It's going up, not down, but it's away from John and Dr. Sawyer, so it's better than the alternative. 

The other guests on the elevator stare at him like he's escaped from an asylum, but he doesn't care. He mashes the button for the top floor, knowing they will never look for him there. 

John watches his Omega sprint for an elevator and realizes in a flash that the boy lied to him. He runs for the elevator, misses it, then runs up to the fifth floor after seeing it stop there. 

"John, I'll take the elevator! We can catch him!" Dr. Sawyer calls. 

When he reaches the fifth floor, the elevator is already gone. 

"Mommy, why was that boy running?"

"Excuse me, have you seen my Omega? He's a patient here and was on that elevator, I believe," interrupts John. 

"Top floor," the woman tells him kindly. 

"Thank you!" The elevator dings. "Top floor, Doctor!" John yells, and he runs up more stairs. 

Once he reaches the top floor, John doesn't see his Omega, but the closing door to the roof gives some clue of where he might be. How he managed to open it when he required a key card John will never know, but he leaps at the door and pounds up the stairs. 

"Sherlock!" The desperate cry rips from John's throat as he watches his Omega leap onto the ledge. "Get down now!"

"No! I don't like you, I want my brother!"

"Sherlock, oh my god!" Yells Dr. Sawyer. 

"Get me my brother!" Sherlock screams, "I want to go home! I don't want John!"

"I'm calling the police," Dr. Sawyer whispers to John.  
.............................................................  
"Lestrade, there's an Omega on top of St. Bart's Hospital, upset and threatening to jump," Sally reports. 

"Not my division," he answers, frustrated at being called for something that is so clearly not what he was trained for. 

"You'll want this one. It's Sherlock Holmes." Lestrade leaps up and jumps into his car, Sally right on his heels. 

"There he is!" exclaimed Sally as they park and jump out of the car. 

"Stay here, you'll only upset him more. I'm going up."

John nearly jumps out of his skin when the roof access door is slammed open. A Detective Inspector with graying hair runs out onto the roof. 

"Sherlock Holmes, you get down from that ledge right now!"

"Lestrade?" Sherlock asks in amazement. 

"Yeah. They called the police on you. Please tell me you're not doing an experiment."

"I'm not. I'm bargaining."

"I see."

"Do you?"

"No, I don't. What am I missing?"

"As usual, everything of importance. I got bonded. Lestrade, meet John, John meet Lestrade."

The two men shake hands, both watching Sherlock to be sure he's not going to jump. 

"Okay, so you bonded. Most Omegas don't celebrate by threatening to jump off a roof."

"They won't let me see Mycroft."

"Sorry, who?" Lestrade asked in confusion. 

"Mycroft, my brother. I need to see him."

"I'll help you contact him, but I need you to get off that ledge," states Lestrade calmly. 

He's shocked when Sherlock jumps off the ledge onto the roof and flings himself into his arms, then promptly bursts into tears. Belatedly he realizes that Sherlock, as a newly bonded Omega, is experiencing hormone surges and has no idea of how to deal with his volatile emotions right now. 

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Let's get down from the roof, okay?"

"Not to the hospital, don't take me there, they'll tie me up again!" begs Sherlock. 

"Yes, to the hospital, and no, they won't tie you up. I won't let them. Can you trust me with that?"

Sherlock nods. He doesn't unlock his arms from Lestrade's waist, leaving the man struggling to walk. Mercifully, he manages to make it to Sherlock's hospital room without injuring either of them. He sets Sherlock onto the side of the bed and tries to back away, but Sherlock still clings to him. 

"It's alright. I'll be right here. Here, you can hold my hand if you want," he offers, and Sherlock, the bossy Omega that was so strong, grasps his hand like its his only lifeline. "Okay, talk to me."

"I need my brother. They won't let me talk to him."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I'm-" his voice breaks, but he continues on, "I'm scared. I never wanted an Alpha, and I've got one now, and I need my brother."

"You never wanted an Alpha?" Sherlock shakes his head no. 

"Why?" Sherlock shakes his head again. He either can't or won't talk about it. 

"John?" John shakes himself from his fog. His Alpha wolf is demanding a chance to challenge the Detective Inspector who dares to touch and comfort his Omega. It should be his job, but he's valiantly battling these urges because he understands his Omega needs someone other than him to make him feel safe. 

"If I understand correctly, you were the one to ban Sherlock's brother. Care to explain why? I'm getting the feeling Sherlock doesn't understand either."

"Right, I was. So he's living with his brother, but he has clear signs of abuse on his skin. Burn marks and other scars, you know. He wasn't conscious at the time, so I banned his brother just to be safe."

Lestrade's fist clenches (the one that's not holding Sherlock's hand) and he takes a deep breath before continuing. "Sherlock, is your brother hurting you, or has he hurt you in the past?"

"No."

"Who did, then?" John questions. "The scars didn't come from nowhere."

Sherlock shakes his head again. 

"How bad are these scars?" Lestrade asks. "Can I see them?"

After a long indeterminate pause, Sherlock nods. "I'll help," John offers, and Sherlock just nods again. Together, the two men strip Sherlock of his hospital gown, John being mindful to cover his Omega with blankets before his entire body is exposed to the Detective Inspector. 

Lestrade gasps as he sees the burns. "Who did this? Your brother?"

"No! Mycroft doesn't know, he can't know, you can't tell him! Promise! Promise me he won't find out!"

"Okay, I promise," Lestrade says gently. "Who did this?"

"My father. He hurt Mycroft too, he's got scars from being thrown into the fire, but once he left for the government job my father started hurting me a lot more. He didn't like me because I was too smart and impolite. I didn't tell Mycroft because I knew he'd come back and I didn't want that to happen, he deserved to get away and be safe."

"He threw Mycroft into the fire?" John repeated, voice dangerously low. 

Sherlock nodded. "He killed my dog too. I always thought Alphas were wild animals that would just kill what you loved, after that. I told you once, Lestrade, that I was a sociopath. I wasn't joking, I don't believe I'm capable of loving anyone or anything. Never again."

John's heart broke as he listened to his mate describe in a clinical detached voice what had happened to his Omega. No wonder the boy seemed to want nothing to do with him, and why he jumped and looked frightened when John used his Alpha voice. 

Lestrade looks at John. "I think we can lift the ban on Mycroft."

"I think so. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"What?"

"Sorry," John repeats, and Sherlock looks even more frightened now. 

"People don't apologize to me."

"Well I am sorry. I should've talked to you prior to banning your brother. As a matter of fact, I'll take you to see him now."

Dr. Sawyer agrees that there is no medical reason Sherlock must stay in the hospital, and Sherlock is discharged. 

"I've got to get back," Lestrade tells Sherlock, "but you've got my number, don't be afraid to use it."

Sherlock hurls himself in Lestrade's arms. "Thank you. For everything."

"Anytime, Sherlock, I mean it."

As soon as Lestrade gets back in the car, Sally is gaping at him. "Did the Freak just hug you?"

"Don't call him that," he admonishes, pulling out into traffic. "There's a lot you don't understand."

"Are you going to explain?"

"No."

"He's okay, right? The Freak?"

"I think he will be."


	7. Going Home

The cabbie dropped them off in front of a discreet building. John stared up at it, but Sherlock charged in, leaving John to sigh and hurry after him. 

"Anthea, where's my brother?" Sherlock questions, shoving past several people gathered around her desk grumbling angrily. Sherlock spares them a passing glance-foreign dignitaries. Boring. 

"He received a phone call he said he couldn't ignore. We're not sure who from. He paused a crucial meeting and took the call. I presumed it was something about you."

Sherlock shoves past Anthea, hollering "John!" so the man followed him. 

"Mycroft!" The man in question is sitting with his phone in his hand, staring at it blankly. At his brother's shout, he met his gaze, though he still seemed dazed. 

"Mycroft? What is it?" John questioned, concerned. Even he knew this was abnormal behavior for the government official. 

"Mummy called. Father died. It was a hunting accident. Ironic, all the times I wished him dead, now he's dead, and I can't properly enjoy it because Mummy is traumatized. The gun went off in the living room as he was cleaning it, so Mummy witnessed the whole thing." He sighs. "I should cancel my meeting. I'm going to do that now. Come along, Sherlock, John."

He sweeps out of the room to Anthea's desk. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am afraid I must postpone our meeting. I was just informed my father passed away today. My mother is distraught, and as the eldest son I am obligated to be with her. My secretary will reschedule. Good day." Everybody gapes at him, but he ignores them.

He walks calmly out to his car, Sherlock and John following, whispers of "Ice Man" following him. 

Mycroft gets into his car, holds the door for Sherlock and John to scramble in behind him, and doesn't speak to either of them for the rest of the journey to Holmes Manor. 

When the car finally stops, John stares in shock at Holmes Manor. Apparently his young mate is accustomed to a much better lifestyle than the one John can provide. 'Think about that later,' John chides his inner wolf. 'His father just died.'

Mycroft is the first inside, and he follows the sound of sobs to the parlor. His mother is in there, staring at the blood on the floor, the room looking every bit like one of Sherlock's crime scenes. He steps daintily over his father's corpse, resisting the urge to simultaneously kick him in the side, and to vomit. 

"Mummy!"

"Mycroft! Oh my baby! My poor baby!" She pushes his sleeve up gently, revealing the silver scars from his burns, and gently kisses them before kissing his cheek. "I didn't know. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive," Mycroft says lightly. "It wasn't you."

His mother whirls on to Sherlock, but then she sees John and stops. "Sherlock, who is this?"

"Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northberland Fusiliers, ma'am. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Oh, a soldier!"

"And a doctor," Sherlock adds, dropping to the ground to poke at his father's corpse. 

"Mummy, perhaps you should go rest. We can clean up for you," suggested Mycroft. 

"Yes, I do believe you're right. You're a good boy, Mycroft," she says, cupping his cheek and kissing him again. She kissed Sherlock, then John, and left the room. As soon as she was gone, Sherlock made a face and began scrubbing at his cheek. 

"Mycroft, how many hunting accidents have you heard of where the person accidentally hit themselves directly in the heart?"

"I'm certain there's a few," he answered nonchalantly. 

"Yeah, no," John retorted. "I think your mother might've shot him." 

"I'd say she just discovered what he did to us," Sherlock agreed. "So she killed him for it."

"Can't say I blame her," John mutters softly. Both brothers peruse him for a moment- his jaw is clenched, along with his fists, meaning he's not lying. "This blood is already soaked into the floor," he says, louder. "We'll never get it up by scrubbing. Do you have a sledgehammer?"

Mycroft finds one in the gardener's shed, and promptly lays into the floor with such a fierce expression John and Sherlock both back up reflexively. After a few minutes, Mycroft speaks. "John, why wouldn't you allow the hospital nurses to release information to me?"

"He saw a couple signs of abuse, falsely presumed they were your handiwork, and banned you so you couldn't hurt me again," Sherlock replies. 

"What signs? I thought your abuse was verbal?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. "I'd like the sledgehammer now."

"Not until you answer me."

"On second thought, I don't want the sledgehammer."

"Sherlock!"

"Fine." Angrily, Sherlock strips off his shirt and hurls it at his brother. "Happy now?"

Mycroft's eyes blaze as he takes in his brother's scars. He drops the sledgehammer, creating a rather large dent in the floor, and walks away. 

"Mycroft? Mycroft, what's wrong?" 

"Let him go, Sherlock. Give him a few minutes," John said calmly. "He's upset."

"Why?"

"I'd say because he cares for you."

"But caring is not an advantage,"  
replied Sherlock, baffled. 

John turned so he could see his bonded fully. "I keep hearing you say that, who taught you that?"

"My father. Reinforced by Mycroft."

John growls low in his throat. "Give him a few minutes, then we'll go after him. And don't believe everything you've been told. You're smart enough, challenge what you were taught. Look at your brother, you might just learn differently."

After a few minutes, John sets off in pursuit of Mycroft. "I think he'd be on the widow's peak," Sherlock told John. "I'll climb up and get him."

It is cold outside, but Mycroft seems impervious to the cold. Sherlock doesn't wait or try to talk Mycroft down, he grabs his brother's arm and hauls him down the ladder. John catches him before he can be hurt. 

Mycroft is locked away in his mind, grabbing his emotions-guilt, fear, anger, sadness-and locking them away. Other past voices taunt him. "Fat, loser, useless," his father hisses angrily. Mycroft ignores him, continuing to pack his box. "No one likes a brainiac, Mycroft," his classmates call. "You're an Omega? C'mere, let me show you what to do with your brilliant mouth." Mycroft shudders, taping faster. "Stop crying, boy. Caring is not an advantage, and I don't care what happened, you need to grow up and take it like a man," his father reprimands. He has just finished mentally boxing them up and leaves the room, running from the past, when his brother's arm closes around his and pulls. Mycroft tumbles down the ladder and is caught by John. 

"What's wrong, Mycroft?" questions Sherlock as John places Mycroft on the ground. 

Mycroft ignores him. 

"Mycroft? Why'd you leave?"

"No reason, Brother Mine." Mycroft ruffles his brother's curls and goes back downstairs, picks up the sledgehammer, and attacks with renewed vigor. Meanwhile, Sherlock and John find some paint and redo the wall, sanding the blood off and repainting. 

Once the floor is finished, Mycroft calls a morgue (St. Bart's, they won't be smart enough to think anything other than "hunting accident") and a flooring company. His father's body is removed, and a new floor is laid. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock and John have made food. Sherlock heated tomato soup while John made grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches. 

John serves up plates, and he and Sherlock go to find the rest of the family. Mycroft is in his mother's room, holding her hand. Neither of them are saying anything, and it seems Mrs. Holmes' tears have run out, for the moment. 

"We brought food," John offers, holding out the plates as an explanation of why he's intruding. 

"Bless you," Mrs. Holmes says, taking a plate. She kisses him again, and sits down to enjoy the meal. "Please, sit," she orders her youngest and his bonded. Mycroft slides a bit, and all four of them climb on the bed together. 

Nobody says anything, they sit in silence for awhile. Nobody eats much either, except John and Mycroft. At least, Mycroft eats until he remembers his father's voice calling him fat, then he turns very pale and shoves his food away. 

The clock chiming in the hall gets everyone's attention. "Oh, its too late for you boys to go back tonight," Mrs. Holmes says. "Stay here tonight. You can have your old rooms, boys." She takes their plates-in spite of John's argument that he can wash the dishes- and turns to leave. "Mummy, aren't you forgetting something? Where will John sleep?"

His mother gives him a strange look. "I was bonded, remember darling? You don't have to play coy for me. Of course John can stay in your room. Your room is far enough from mine that you can do whatever you want."

Sherlock goes red, and as soon as his mother leaves, he murmurs, "Delete! Delete!"

Then he stands up. "Mycroft, goodnight. Come along, John." He leads him down a flight of stairs, through a hall, and pushes open the fourth door to the right. "Welcome to my room."

John hardly even looks at it. "How are you doing? I mean, you just got out of the hospital, were recently bonded, and now you found out your father is dead, and was murdered by your mother. How are you holding up?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I don't care about any of it."

John smirks a bit. "That's not what the emotions I felt when you first woke up in the hospital said, and that's certainly not what I'm feeling from you now."

"I'm a sociopath. I don't have feelings."

"Sure you don't."

"Shut up, just shut up! You don't know a thing about me!"

"You're right," John agrees. "I don't. But you have to tell me things, I can't just figure them out. I'm not telepathic. So, back to my original question: how are you?"

"Fine," growls Sherlock. "I'm going to shower. Are you planning to shower tonight?"

"Sure, I'll go after you."

Sherlock nods. He huffs around the room, slamming things together, and disappears into the bathroom. When he reappears, he is toweling off his damp hair, and John has never wanted to kiss him more. He swallows and realizes his mouth is dry. After a moment, he tears his gaze away. 

Sherlock vanishes for a few moments, then reappears. "Here's some clothes from the attic. Hopefully they fit."

John takes a quick shower and gets ready, looking over the clothes Sherlock handed him. John typicality doesn't sleep in trousers, and he definitely doesn't sleep in jumpers. He slips on pants and goes out to his mate. 

"Hey, I don't normally sleep in jumpers," John says. "I think I'll just sleep like this."

"You are NOT getting into my bed naked."

"I'd prefer you in your bed naked, and don't worry, I've got pants on. That was a joke about you naked by the way, don't freak out."

Sherlock huffs as John climbs into bed. His eyes go shut immediately, though he can feel his soulmate's stare piercing him.

After a few minutes, John questions, "See anything you like?" 

"Shut up."

"It's fine."

"I know it is," retorts Sherlock defensively. 

"I'm just saying, it's all fine." He can feel Sherlock's embarrassment through their bond and is trying to reassure him.

They lie in silence for a while. Sherlock tosses and turns, and the one point he kicks John in the side. Around three in the morning, Sherlock stops moving. His breathing evens out and John knows he has finally fallen asleep. He follows suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I am so sorry this chapter took so long. Nursing school is leaving me minimal time for anything else. :(


	8. Back to Afghanistan

The next day, John was woken by his phone vibrating in his pocket. "Hello?...Yes, sir,....yes, sir....today? That's quick....Eleven?...yes, sir. See you then. Goodbye, sir."

Sherlock rolls over and rubs his sleep-filled eyes. "Why is your superior calling at six in the morning?"

"I need to go back to Afghanistan to fill out paperwork and get my stuff. I'm being honorably discharged, thanks to bonding you. They don't like to have bonded people, in case that person dies, so I'm out. We have a flight that leaves Heathrow at eleven."

"We? I don't want to come with you, it's boring!"

"Sorry, but you aren't getting a choice. Basic biology demands we stay together for at least the next week to cement our bond. Plus, you'll have a mini-heat we'll have to go through. Didn't they teach you that in school?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Probably deleted it."

"Sorry, what?"

"Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish. I delete the useless things so there's space for what matters."

"It's basic Omega biology!"

"So? I don't care about being an Omega, and I deleted it."

"Right. Well, we're going to have to acknowledge biology, so we are going to Afghanistan. Together."

Sherlock sighs. "Fine."

"We should get up," John tells Sherlock. 

Sherlock grumbles wordlessly but doesn't get up. 

"Sherlock," coaxes John. 

John reaches over and pulls his Omega into his arms. Sherlock grunts as John lifts him off the bed and carries him downstairs to the kitchen, though surprisingly he doesn't complain.

They enter the kitchen and John freezes. "Good morning, Mrs. Holmes. Mycroft."

Sherlock's mother ignores the fact that John is cradling her youngest, but Mycroft arches an eyebrow until it nearly touches his hairline. After a moment, he seems to decide he doesn't want to know, and returns to his computer, typing incessantly while his breakfast grows cold next to him. 

"Myc, dear, how many times have I told you-no laptop at the table?"

"Yes, Mummy," he says agreeably, standing and leaning against his chair while typing. 

"Behave, Myc!" Mrs. Holmes chides, rolling a dish towel and smacking her son's rear with it. 

"Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle to the end. I'll be done in a moment, don't fret."

"I'm not fretting. I just get to see you so rarely, and you're always engulfed in that computer. I forget what color your eyes are."

Mycroft still stares at his screen. "My eyes are the same color as yours, Mummy. If you truly forget, I suggest you look in a mirror. Furthermore, my job doesn't wait on me, and this email must be sent within the next two minutes."

He types some more, and hits the send button with a flourish. "Back to Afghanistan, John? I'd estimate about a week until you get back, meaning Sherlock's second heat will also be spent on foreign soil. I can promise you, John, that if-theoretically-anything were to happen to my brother, they will not be able to find your body."

"Duly noted," John answers, bemused. "Are you threatening me?"

Mycroft smirks. "I don't threaten, I promise."

"The army has a special camaraderie, forged from almost dying multiple times. We share everything and protect each other. If anyone wants to hurt him, they're gonna have to get through me and my entire platoon."

Mycroft snarls. "You had better not SHARE my brother with your army friends."

Feeling uncomfortable, John stammers, "Wasn't planning on it."

"Settle down, Myc," Mrs. Holmes cuts in before Mycroft can say anything else. "Sit down, boys, and eat breakfast. When do you need to leave?"

"Flight leaves at eleven. Two and a half hours for security makes it nine thirty. Driving time adds on another hour, so eight thirty. And it's six now."

"Take my jet, skip security," Mycroft offers. 

John gapes at him. "What exactly do you do, again?"

"I have a minor position in the British Government."

"Right, minor," John scoffs skeptically. 

He gratefully accepts the plate Mrs. Holmes hands him, and conversation grinds to a halt as everyone begins eating. 

Once breakfast has finished, John washes the dishes while the Holmes' discuss funeral arrangements. They agree that the funeral will be held while Sherlock is in Afghanistan, because he would be an awful guest anyway.

John checks the clock and realizes it will soon be time to leave. Sherlock heads upstairs to pack a suitcase, throwing it together haphazardly. 

"Good enough," he proclaims. 

"Did you grab extra pants?"

"For what?" 

"Your heat."

Sherlock rolls his eyes but grabs three extra pairs. "Happy?"

"Very."

"Good, let's go."

The boys head downstairs and say goodbye to Sherlock's family. Mycroft and Sherlock whisper for a moment together. 

"I believe I'll find a nice flat for you and John while you're gone. I'm thinking somewhere central-I'll find something. I'll email you the details, if I find it before you get back I'll move you in."

"You-you don't want me anymore?"

"What? No!" exclaims Mycroft, flabbergasted. "But we're moving on now, Brother Mine. We're drifting apart. You've reached a stage in your life I never intend to achieve. You have a new life now, with John. Enjoy it. Thrive with him."

"Is it selfish to want both?" questions Sherlock. "I need you, only you, but biology demands I have John too."

"Not selfish," his brother reassures, "you can ask for both. I am always here for you, even if we're not living together."

"I'll miss you," Sherlock tells him. 

"And I, you." They hug, then part reluctantly. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

"Goodbye, Brother Mine."  
............................................................  
John stays quiet until they've been in the air for five minutes. He's sitting across from Sherlock but Sherlock is studiously ignoring him, instead reaching into his carry-on to pull out a laptop. 

"Did you want to talk?" John asks, breaking the silence. 

"No."

"Well I would prefer to talk. I'd l-"

"I already know things you want to talk about. Your family. Your brother is close to you, but you don't approve of him-possibly because of his alcoholism, more likely because he recently left his wife. I know you're not close to your parents, but not because you were abused by them. I know you would consider yourself to be a "good" Alpha, which I would agree with based on your dealings with me in heat. So as you can see, there's no need to talk, because I already know most of the important things about you."

John stares at him in shocked silence. 

"Oh, go on. I must have gotten something wrong. What was it?"

John clears his throat. "Harry is short for Harriet."

"Sister," Sherlock exclaims angrily. "Always something. Sister!"

"Right. If you would've let me finish though, I wanted to discuss our relationship."

"We don't have a relationship."

"In a few short days, we will spend your heat together. Realistically, I will be moving in with you as soon as we get back because my Alpha needs to be assured you're safe all the time." Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I know this is in no way what you want, but I'm trying to be considerate. I think we should set some limits on our relationship."

Sherlock sighs. "Such as?"

John begins listing: "Did you want to hold hands? Do you want to kiss? Do you mind PDA, or are you a keep-it-behind-closed-doors person? Did you want to have sex outside of your heat? Did you want to share the same bed?"

Sherlock holds up a hand imperiously, and John's questions putter to a stop. "Possibly, to hand-holding, no to kissing. Let me initiate PDA-no promises, I most likely won't be interested. Keep-it-behind-closed-doors is preferred; honestly no contact would be better. No to sex, and I'd prefer to avoid the bed situation due to the possibility of nighttime," Sherlock clears his throat awkwardly, "reactions on your part, though I'm fully willing to accept that that might not be possible for the next week."

"Erm, yeah, probably not," John agrees. “I own one bed, and no couches or other furniture I can sleep on.”

"How do you feel about the violin?"

"Sorry?" John's not sure he heard him right. 

"The violin. It helps me think. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"The violin is fine."

Sherlock nods, and his attention is reclaimed by his laptop.  
.............................................................  
Once they disembark, John is tackled by an over-exuberant Sebastian. "You're back! You didn't even call or text, you jerk!" He catches sight of Sherlock, releasing John and tackling Sherlock with the energy level of a golden retriever. "Hey! It's the brilliant, sassy Omega kid!"

Then he catches sight of the bandage on Sherlock's neck. "John Watson! You got bonded and didn't tell me?!" He steamrolls on without giving John a chance to reply. "You poor kid. How'd it happen?" This is clearly directed to Sherlock. 

"Perfect match," responds Sherlock. 

"Oh yeah? I always thought that was a myth. Neat. Well, John, I can take your bag back to your house if you want. You can go see the boss immediately." He chuckles. "Have fun with that. I'm going to show the kid around. C'mon kid, we're burning daylight." He jogs off. Sherlock jogs off after him, looking amused. 

"Did you get to see everything the last time you were here, or do you need a tour?" Sebastian asks. 

"No, I got a tour the last time."

"Great! Then let's drop John's crap off and go play poker."

"I've never played."

"What? Really? Okay, that's gonna be the first thing you'll learn. I'll teach you how to shoot a gun second. Anyway, here we are, just throw your stuff wherever. Find a room and claim it."

After a bit of thought, Sherlock selects the same room he was in before. It was comfortable, close to the kitchen for easy access to food, relatively easy to protect, and still smelled of him; all of which his Omega took to equate to safety. 

Setting his bag on the floor, he races Sebastian to the barracks. 

John's army mates are surprisingly accepting of a young sociopath. They teach him poker and chat with him about his work at the Yard (Sebastian had asked what he did, and the answer led to countless jokes). Best of all, no one questions the fact that he leaves every hour for a few minutes to check on John. The agitating Omega side of him demands to lay eyes on his Alpha frequently, and ignoring it makes Sherlock anxious. So every hour he slips away, stares through the window at John, then sneaks back to his new friends. 

Meanwhile, John is a little grumpy that he has to be in meetings without Sherlock. He keeps a metaphorical eye on the boy through their bond, watching his emotions to be sure his friends don't overstep their boundaries. As soon as he feels anxiety, he panicked, and is trying to excuse himself when a wave of peace rushes over him. Confused, John glances around and spots his mate's curls. Instant relief floods him as well-Sherlock is fine, and was only anxious because he couldn't see his mate. 

This pattern continues on for the rest of the day, which makes John grin like a lunatic. In spite of his Omega's history, perhaps the boy can be happy with John after all.


	9. Attacked!

The first couple of days aren't too bad, in John's opinion. Sherlock seems to be tolerating his presence, which is more than he has any right to ask for. The first night, when John finally got done with paperwork, Sherlock had babbled to him nonstop about his friends and learning poker. "I learned their tells, John. Murray crinkles his nose for a half second if he thinks his hand is good. Gregson flares his nostrils. Sebastian always darts his gaze to the left if he's got a bad hand, to the right if it's good. After that, it was easy to win. They played for boring things-food- so you can have it."

He dumps a pile of snacks onto John's bed. Surprisingly, he grabs a piece of chocolate, unwraps it and pops it in his mouth, still jabbering a mile a minute. 

"Sebastian taught me how to shoot. I thought it would be easier but it wasn't. He says I did good but I think he's lying. By omission though, because he didn't look left. Either that, or he believes it, which may mean he needs glasses. Shooting your guns are different than the little pistol Mycroft taught me to use, but pistols and the like are more practical in London."

"Sounds like a good day," answers John when he can get a word in. 

"Oh it was," Sherlock reassures him. 

"Do you have friends back in London?"

Sherlock frowns a bit. "Mycroft is my friend. And my arch-enemy." He smiles fondly.

Something about that doesn't seem right to John. "People don't have arch-enemies."

"They don't?" Sherlock's tone makes it clear he doesn't care. "What do they have?"

"Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Friends in general."

"Dull." The answer tells John the answer to his question. No, Sherlock doesn't have friends. "I'm going to sleep," his mate announces, and without preamble he falls asleep.   
.............................................................  
The next day is more of the same. John begins paperwork to help his successors who will be taking over after him-why, John isn’t quite sure, because they’ve been training together since he enlisted-and Sherlock practices shooting with Sebastian. 

Murray, Gregson, and Sebastian also teach Sherlock how to play “party games”, meaning they try to get him to talk about his life and his relationship with John. After they find out through Never Have I Ever that no one has EVER done anything that Sherlock has (“He says he once broke into a morgue and stole a skull. Just drops that in there like he expects we’ve all done that in our life. And he hasn’t drank, done drugs, slept with anybody, kissed anybody, like I swear, John, you can’t play Never Have I Ever with that kid, you’ll stay stone sober all night,” complained Murray later) they quickly give up. They attempt to teach Sherlock how to play Truth or Dare, but after Sherlock vehemently turns down a dare to kiss John, they decide to end that, too. Sebastian jokingly suggests that they teach Sherlock Seven Minutes in Heaven, which everyone quickly vetoes because they all value their lives too much to have to tell John that they did any kind of anything with his innocent Omega. After that, they go back to poker.

Sherlock tells John that he googled some more party games on his own, and found one he thinks he’d like to try. “Twenty Questions, John. That’s the name of it, but the idea is kind of stupid. You think of something and people have to guess it within twenty questions. My research suggests that some young people use the game to ask twenty questions about whatever they want.”

“Sounds good. Anything off limits?”

“My father for now, but it may change later. Do you have any limits?”

“I’d like to consider myself an open book,” John tells him. “Ask away. Let’s reserve the right to pass, though, just in case.”

“You can. If you give me passes, I’ll take the coward’s way out and pass every question.”

“Fine. I’ll start?” At Sherlock’s nod, he says, “Okay, first question: What’s your favorite color and why?”

“Blue. It’s a safe color.” Seeing John’s confusion, he elaborates, “Blue is the color of the ocean I imagined when I was Bootstrap Bill playing pirates, and Father was away. Blue is the color of Mycroft’s eyes, and my mother’s too. Blue is the color of the sky outside, which was safer than inside. Blue is a safe color. My turn: how old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” answers John. “Second question: What do you do for a living? Or what do you want to do?”

“I’m a Consulting Detective. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me. Why did you become a doctor?”

“I like helping people, and this was perfect. Being a surgeon was perfect for my adrenaline, too. I loved the rush of being in the operating room, being on a schedule to help make someone better. It’s the most wonderful thing I can imagine. Right up there with…..never mind. What do you like to do?”

“I like to do experiments. Sometimes I experiment on things so I can solve a case-one time I went to Bart’s and whipped a body in the morgue with a riding crop so I could see the bruise patterns that formed and clear or condemn a man- and if I don’t need the experiment for a case I just research random knowledge that I want to know-differences in tobacco ash, a comparison of different types of wool, different types of perfume, mold on toes, just random science experiments. What were you going to say before?”

John turns red and studiously avoids Sherlock’s gaze. “Being a doctor is the most wonderful thing I can imagine, right up there with that feeling of completeness that washed over me the second Mycroft told me you were my Perfect Match.” He clears his throat, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Anyway, you said that Mycroft is both your friend and your arch-enemy. Why the second?”

Sherlock’s face takes on the reminiscent smile he seems to frequently get when talking about Mycroft. “He’s part of the government, you know. He’d have you believe he’s a lowly paper-pusher, but in reality, he pretty much is the British Government. When I was in London at my boarding school, Mycroft would consistently observe me using CCTV. It was rather annoying, so I call him my arch-enemy sometimes. Were you ever in a relationship before me?” 

“A few. They never lasted longer than a few months, and never with an Omega, though I have helped them through heats as a doctor. What about you?”

“No. Never. My parents tried to get me bonded off, but that didn’t work out too well. I knew how to scare people away, and used it to my advantage. No one likes my deductions.” He laughs. “Have you ever been intimate with someone?”

“No,” answers John quickly. “You?”

“No. Not for lack of several people wishing it, though. Are you glad you have an Omega now? Even though it will take you away from the Army?”

“Yes. Overjoyed. It honestly feels like you complete me, that isn’t just some romantic claptrap I’m spewing. I think I could be happy in London doing some kind of doctoring, and spending every day with you.” He quickly asks the question he’s been dying to know for a while. “Are you, or do you think you could be, happy with me as your mate?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Currently, I’m not sure. I wouldn’t describe what I’m feeling as happiness, necessarily. I’m still adjusting to the idea of having someone else to be around. And of course I don’t really know you, which does make me nervous. I’d like to see you angry, truthfully, so I know what to expect from you. In the future, I believe there is a possibility of my being happy with you. I am open to the idea. I’m done asking questions now. I’m going for a walk. Don’t wait up.”

Before John can argue with the boy, Sherlock is gone. He stays out late, late enough that though John struggles valiantly to wait up for him, he succumbs to sleep. In the morning, when he wakes up, Sherlock is draped around him.  
.............................................................  
John is on watch and fairly happy. He’s left Sherlock with Sebastian for the time being, and all he has to do is finish this watch-which will be over within the next twenty minutes-and he is done with the Army and can bond Sherlock. After a short, three-day mini-heat for Sherlock to bond John (it’s a little hard to bite someone with a bonding bite when you’re unconscious) they would fly back to England and get settled into their new life in London together.

Abruptly, John leans forward, on high alert. “Murray, did you see that?”

“Wolves! Sound the alarm, the base is under attack!”

Sherlock has just won yet another game of poker, much to the feigned chargin of John’s Army mates, when he hears alarms ringing. “What is that?”

“We’re under attack. C’mon, kid, let’s go.” Sebastian calmly walks to the door, hand on Sherlock. Cautiously, he opens the door and peeps out. “Keep close.” They dart out into the shadows, moving swiftly but surely through the night. 

“Wait! What about John?”

“He’ll be fine; he’s trained for these kind of things.”

“He was on guard; he’ll be in the midst of all the fighting!”

“Yeah. Now come on, there’s some safe places we’ve been keeping in reserve in these hills in case the base was ever attacked.”

“No. No way. I didn’t find my Perfect Match just to lose him to a bunch of Afghans attacking. I’m going back. ”

“Listen to me. Those bells you heard mean that the attackers are Alphas. That means they can turn into wolves, Sherlock! Wolves! John has been trained for this situation, he will be fine. You have not trained for this situation, you have no weapon, you cannot turn into a wolf, and you are literally hours away from going into heat. I cannot in good conscience let you go back.”

“I’m going back. People always told me there was no way that I would ever have a match, no way that anyone would ever love me. If you think I’m going to just sit here and play damsel in distress while I possibly lose the only person outside of my family that would ever love me, you’ve got another thing coming.” Thus saying, he turns and sprints down the hill. Sebastian chases after him, cursing him out all the while.

Miraculously, Sherlock manages to stay ahead of Sebastian the whole time. He darts back into the base, forcing his way through the fighting until he gets to the front. He arrives just in time to see an Alpha morph into human form, pull a gun and shoot John.

Sherlock screams. The sound is completely inhuman, Sebastian thinks to himself. Then he finds a gun. Where it even came from, Sebastian isn’t sure, but the first person to go down is the man who shot John. A sickly sweet aroma permeates the air, and Sebastian realizes right along with everyone else that Sherlock is going into heat. Renewed fighting occurs as the Alphas struggle to reach Sherlock, but the boy is no stereotypical weak whimpering Omega begging for an Alpha knot. He hefts the gun and shoots anyone that approaches with malicious intent. 

Sebastian forges in to his right, picking off targets that Sherlock hadn’t killed yet, whether wolf or human. They stand side by side battling. Distantly, Sebastian is aware that at some point in the fighting Murray got a clear line to John and whisked him away for medical attention. 

Finally, once all the attackers are dead, Sebastian turns to Sherlock. “God, kid, I TOLD you not to do that.” Sherlock doesn’t respond, but his face goes deathly pale and he collapses on the spot. “I need help over here! The Omega going into heat just collapsed!”


	10. First Case

It’s no surprise to Sherlock that he wakes in the Army hospital, because he can remember everything that happened up to the point of him passing out. What does surprise him is the fact that he no longer feels like he’s going into heat, and the fact that when he sits up he can’t see John anywhere, which doesn’t bode well for him. If his mate is dead, well, he’s not sure what he’ll do, but it’ll be drastic.

“Hey, you’re awake!” Sebastian exclaims, looking pleased, as he enters the room.

“Yeah. Where’s John?” 

“Still in surgery.”

“How is he doing? Did we get to him in time?”

“I don’t know. The doctors haven’t told me anything yet.”

“I’m not going into heat.”

“I’m pretty sure they gave you heat suppressants. It would be cruel to let you go through your heat when your mate can’t take care of you.”

The doctor breezes in then, followed closely by Murray and Gregson. “Mr. Holmes? Your mate has just come out of surgery. He received a gunshot wound to the shoulder, but he will live. We got the bullet removed; he will have the scar from that for the rest of his life. We will take you to see him soon. He is awake, but be aware that he has been placed on anesthetics, and most of what he says will likely not make sense.”

Thank you, doctor.”

“You yourself are fine, you simply fainted from being over-stressed as you went into your heat. Your body began a sympathetic connection to John, and when he passed out, you passed out shortly thereafter. We gave you a bit of IV fluids, and you will be fine. We also gave you heat suppressants. It forced you out of this heat, and we suggest you continue taking them until John heals enough for you to have a three-day heat and properly bond him.”

“Thank you.”

“We will also prepare John to go back to London. It will be for the best for you to be surrounded by family and other loved ones during this time, so we will send you back as soon as John is medically cleared. I do not want to deceive you, your mate has a long and arduous recovery ahead of him. He will need months of physical therapy in order to return his shoulder to normal capacity. There is a possibility that he will never recover the same range of motion in that shoulder as what he had before. But he should have use of the arm, and he is alive.”

Sherlock nods, and the doctor leaves. A few minutes later, a friendly nurse comes in and helps Sherlock to John. Sebastian, Murray, and Gregson attempt to leave, but Sherlock hauls them along. John looks, well, horrible. Like death warmed over. His face is pale, he’s hooked up to all kinds of machines, but he’s smiling a bit loopy at Sherlock. 

“Sh’lock!”

“Hi, John,” Sherlock answers, feeling his heart squeeze painfully as he looks over his mate. ‘It’s ridiculous that I’m hurting simply because he’s hurt. What a useless bit of sentiment,’ Sherlock thinks.

“Immmmm hurt.”

“I know. You’ll be okay, though.”

“You wanna go home? Lessss do it. Right now. Go hoooome.” He begins struggling to sit up, so Sherlock crosses over to the bed and gently, tenderly pushes him back down.

“No John, we’re supposed to stay in the hospital for a bit longer.”

“We missed your heat.”

“That’s okay, there’s always other ones.”

“Heat, heat, heat,” John singsongs. “I’m cold.”

“Do you need a blanket?”

“Sebastian! You don’t look like a crab.” After making this announcement, he happily launches into “Under the Sea”, slurring all the while.

“John? Let’s go to sleep,” Sherlock suggests.

“No, I’m cold.”

“Yeah. Here, I’ll climb in next to you, keep you warm. We’ll go to sleep together.”

“We missed your heat.”

“Yeah, we did.”

“I’m mad,” John announces as Sherlock climbs into the bed carefully with him.

“Why?” Sherlock questions, pulling back a bit to stare at John.

“I wanted you to want me too. To choose me the way I chose you.” Thus saying, he promptly dozes off. 

“Right, um, we’ll be back later,” Gregson tells Sherlock. Sherlock nods, loops himself carefully over John, and falls asleep.  
.............................................................  
When John wakes up, he seems very confused. “Sherlock?”

“Hi, John.”

“We’re in the hospital.”

“Yeah. In Afghanistan.”

“I was shot. In my shoulder.”

“Yes, you were.”

John falls silent for a while as he thinks about this. “They put you on heat suppressants, didn’t they?”

“So they told me.”

“Are we going home soon?”

“Yes, as soon as you’re cleared to travel.”

“Hopefully that will be soon.” The doctor enters right then to inform them that they will be sent home. In an hour, Sherlock and John are on a plane headed back to London. John is hooked up to morphine, with other medications in case of “break-through” pain. Based on the look on John’s face, Sherlock would deduce that every minute brings more break-through pain. He pulls out his laptop and checks his emails so he doesn’t have to stare at his mate’s face twisted in agony.

There’s an email from Mycroft, letting him know that he did indeed find a flat. 221B Baker Street is the address, according to Mycroft, and the best thing is that Mrs. Hudson is renting 221A, and she loves Sherlock because he found the evidence to get her husband killed when he blew someone’s head off. The woman was also willing to give him a discount, which meant he and John should be able to afford it with John’s Army pension, Sherlock’s cases-when he felt like taking money for them, which wasn’t often- and Mycroft’s bank account. Mycroft also let him know that he had already put down a security deposit and the first year’s rent, and he had moved in Sherlock’s things as well. He also included pictures that Anthea had taken of the flat in question.

“John, look!”

“Wassit?” John questions, having woken up to Sherlock’s exlaimation.

“Our new flat!” John stares at the screen for a few minutes, hums as he scrolls through the pictures, mumbles a bit in agreement, and dozes back off. Clearly John has a low tolerance to pain medications, seeing as how he’s going back to sleep. Then again, sleep is probably better for him right now, with how much pain he’s in, so Sherlock leaves him alone. Rather than bother John, he types out a long email to his brother to thank him and tell him that they are coming back to London. He tells of John’s getting shot, and asks his brother to please look into doctors for them. Mycroft emails back a list of doctors, and the brothers rocket correspondence through cyberspace for the rest of the flight. By the time the warning has come on to fasten their seatbelts, Sherlock and Mycroft have found a physician and physical therapist to work with John, and Sherlock has found no less than three new cases that, from the descriptions at least, look like they could be at least a six.

Sherlock exits the plane, dragging John along behind him, to see that Mycroft and Anthea are both lounging against one of Mycroft’s black town cars waiting for them. Mycroft, or rather Anthea under Mycroft’s direction, has the backseat set up with several comfortable pillows in an effort to make John more comfortable. Mycroft sits up front with his driver for once, and Sherlock decides to flag down a taxi for him and Anthea to give John the most room possible to stretch out and be comfortable. After all, he may be a sociopath, but even he isn’t heartless enough to leave his mate in pain if he doesn’t have to.

The ride back home is silent, mainly because Sherlock rolls down the window of the taxi and sticks his head out like a happy dog, inhaling the scent of London. He’s missed this while being in Afghanistan. It’s good to be home.

As soon as the taxi stops, Sherlock bolts from the taxi. Mrs. Hudson is on the stoop waiting for him, and he greets her joyously before turning to help Mycroft pull his mate from the car. He introduces John to Mrs. Hudson, though John’s eyes are glazed with morphine and Sherlock will be surprised if he remembers any of this later. Mrs. Hudson leads the way up to the flat, babbling on about how “There’s a second bedroom upstairs, as if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

John snaps out of his drugged haze long enough to mumble, “Of course we’ll be needing two.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” Mrs. Hudson tells John, patting him on his uninjured shoulder. “We’ve got all types around here.”

John looks very confused by this statement. He ends up patting her shoulder back and collapses onto the couch, very obviously cradling his injured shoulder. With Mycroft’s help, Sherlock pulls his mate up and puts him to bed in the downstairs bedroom. He adjusts some pillows, fluffing them a bit and generally fussing over his mate before he can feel satisfied and leave.

Once outside, Mycroft gives his brother a once-over.

“What?”

“You seem very attached very quickly.”

“He IS my mate.”

“Just be careful, that’s all I ask.”

Mycroft and Anthea take their leave, and Sherlock happily explores his new flat. The place is large and spacious for a flat, and gloriously central to all the going-ons in London. Mycroft had really outdone himself. Except, of course, for the placement of Sherlock’s things. Mycroft had clearly tried to replicate his brother’s methods of storage, but he failed. Try as they might, the brothers never could agree on organization in a living environment, and it was truly bothering Sherlock’s Omega sensibilities that his nest wasn’t exactly how he wanted it. He thrived on the chaos of a messy-looking nest where it appeared unorganized but everything had its place, Mycroft preferred a clinical OCD appearance. Sherlock quickly unloaded boxes and began moving things around until his flat looked as messy as he liked, and then he relaxed. Everything was okay now.

His phone chimed with an incoming message. ‘Big Brother says you were out of town? Back yet?-GL’

‘Just got back. Do you have a case for me?-SH’

‘Serial suicides. This one left a note. 10/10? ;) –GL’

‘You know I abhor emoticons. Who’s on forensics?-SH’

‘Anderson.-GL’

‘Address, immediately. He’ll destroy everything of importance.-SH’

Lestrade answers back with the address and Sherlock quickly scrawled it down for John, leaving it taped to the inside of his door where he can’t possibly miss it. Then he hustles out the door and flags down a cab. As they drive, he pulls up information about the serial suicides Lestrade had alluded to. His interest is piqued, though he’ll wait to examine the body before he decides to take the case-many a case has sounded interesting thanks to the press, but was actually about a two.

“Hey, glad you’re back safely. Where’s John?”

“He got shot.”

“No kidding! Is he okay? Your creepy Big Brother didn’t mention anything about that!” Sherlock frowns in confusion. 

“I thought you only found out Mycroft existed a few days ago? Yet you’ve been texting my brother for several months now.”

“Wait a second, Big Brother is legitimately your big brother?” At Sherlock’s how stupid are you, really? look, he elaborates, “I thought Big Brother was a nickname because he watches everything, like Big Brother from George Orwell’s ‘1984.’ I didn’t realize he was actually your big brother.”

“Yes, Mycroft and I unfortunately share genetic material. As for John, he’s okay in the manner that he’s still alive and they believe he should have full use of his arm, but he’s on pain medication and was sleeping the last time I saw him.”

“Please tell me you texted him or something! I am not going to have an angry drugged-up Alpha coming onto my crime scene to drag you back home because you didn’t tell him where you were!”

“I left a note, don’t worry. Take me to the body.”

Lestrade rolls his eyes but does as he’s bid, muttering,”Yes, Your Highness,” under his breath.

Back in 221B, John wakes up in an unfamiliar environment which he vaguely remembers might be his new flat. As he stumbles to the door, planning on a quick trip to the kitchen for food, another dose of morphine, and more sleeping, he finds the note Sherlock left. The fact that his Omega left is somewhat alarming, though John can’t blame him, if he had the chance he’d leave himself behind too. However, John wants to have his mate nearby-the Alpha in him whispers that since he is injured his mate may also get injured, and John will be unable to protect him-so he decides to haul himself down the stairs and loads into a taxi.

The driver turns around to stare at him. “You okay, mate? You look a little strung out.”

“I was in surgery recently. But my mate’s apparently at this address, so-“ John lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. The taxi driver pulls away without another question, though John can feel concerned eyes on him throughout the drive.

“We’re here, mate.”

“Thank you.” He exits the cab and roots around in his pockets hoping he has his wallet on him. Thankfully, he does, so he pays the man, along with a nice tip for being genuinely concerned about his well-being, and heads off to find his mate.

He sees police tape and figures that he should probably go over there. Given his mate’s propensity for trouble, police tape seems like a good place to look for Sherlock.

“Hey, get back! You can’t go under there!” John hears a voice call just as he’s about to duck under the police tape and go searching for his mate.

“Sssorry. I’m juss lookin’ fir my mate. You seen S’lock Holmes?”

“The Freak?” John growls, and the woman stops. “Right. Your mate, sorry. Anderson, I’m taking Holmes’ mate up to the body, watch for curious interlopers.”

“The body?” John questions. Something about that seems relevant, though his drugged mind refuses to work fast enough to tell him what it is.

“Yeah, the body, the corpse, whatever term you prefer really.” A spike of adrenaline wakes John up quickly. Body, corpse, no, no, no, no, Sherlock can’t be dead! He searches through their bond desperately, though he can’t find anything. No! Sherlock can’t be- he shoves past the woman on the stairs, charging up to find his mate, or whatever is left of him. He throws the door open and his entire brain cycles to a stop. Sherlock, his mate, his glorious living breathing beautifully breathtaking living mate, is on the ground next to- a dead body. Sherlock wasn’t the dead body though, and that is truly the only important thing to John as his world rights itself once more.

“John? What are you doing here? Mmmph!” Sherlock protests as John crosses the room, tugs his mate up from the floor, and kisses him, pouring all the love and relief he felt at seeing his mate still alive into the kiss.

John breaks the kiss when air is a necessity and not a minute sooner. “I thought you were dead!”

“Why? I left you the address.”

“But the woman told me that she was taking me up to the body. I thought she meant your body!”

“John, what did I tell you I do with the police? Did I ever mention what, exactly, I consult on?”

“No.”

“Murders, John, murders. The body wasn’t mine.” 

In hindsight, that seems obvious. “Oh.”

“I really don’t think you should be out right now. You really don’t look too good.”

“My pain medicine is wearing off.” 

Sherlock’s face morphs into one of sympathy. “Oh, John, I’m sorry. I truly thought leaving a note would be good enough. And you just charged up the stairs and jostled your shoulder…just give me a minute to get the case and we’ll go home.” He turns to Lestrade. “I need the case.”

“What case?”

“The pink case, the case owned by the woman in pink. Where is her case?”

“She didn’t have a case.”

“Of course she did! I just explained to you that the splatters on her tights make it obvious that she was pulling a case behind her.”

“That’s brilliant!” John interjects. 

Sherlock shoots him an odd look, but barrels on. “So where is her case? Did she eat it?”

“It’s not here, we haven’t found a case,” Lestrade repeats.

“Oh! That means she left it with him, with the killer, brilliant! We find the case, we find the killer!” And Sherlock is off, down the stairs like a shot, gone into the night.

John stands there, blinking in confusion. He’s pretty sure his mate has just left him after promising they would go home. Come to think of it, he doesn’t even know where home is. He turns to Lestrade. “Did he just leave me?”

“Yeah, I think so. You don’t look so good, John. Let me help you downstairs.” Lestrade gently guides him down the stairs as John swallows his pride.

“The Freak took off and left you here, did he?” The woman from before is back, and John can’t say he’s glad to see her. He snarls a bit to make his displeasure known at the way she insults his mate. “He gets off on it, you know. The crime scene, the bodies. One day it won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.”

“Donovan!” Lestrade barks, his voice full of anger. The woman falls quiet instantly. “Okay, John, let’s get you into a taxi. What’s your address?”

John does a listless half-shrug. Everything hurts, and he just wants food and to lay back down in his bed. “I don’t know. We just moved. I’m drugged on pain pills, ya know?”

“I’ll text Big Brother.” After a moment, Lestrade has his answer. “221B Baker Street. Donovan, stay with John, I’m going to flag a taxi. You can take my cruiser. And so help you if you call Sherlock a freak one more time.” 

He stalks off to the main road and Donovan sits John gently down on the curb, allowing him to lean on her. 

“Why don’t you like Sherlock?”

“Hmm? Oh, I do. It’s just annoying the way he can always figure out your life history. So I call him a freak to even out the playing field a bit. There’s not much else I can do to defend myself, his tongue is like an acidic sword.”

John smiles. “You should be nicer to him.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll try.”

Lestrade returns then with a taxi and cautiously helps John into it. He climbs in after him and the two sit in silence until the taxi arrives at 221B. 

“Thanks,” John mutters.

“No problem,” Lestrade answers. He taps the driver on the shoulder. “Wait right here for me to get this man settled then take me back to the crime scene. I’ll pay you extra.”

The man nods, not being stupid enough to tell a police officer offering him a good tip no, and idles his cab as Lestrade aids John up the stairs and into bed. Lestrade quickly finds some soup and John’s medication and gives him both, along with a full glass of water.

“Eat this, and drink this, and go to bed,” Lestrade orders kindly. “I’ll text Sherlock and give him absolute h*ll for leaving you alone like this.”

“Thanks.” The clicking of keys is the only response he gets as Lestrade moves into the hall and down the stairs.


	11. A Study in Pink

John wakes up to the clicking of the door opening and closing quietly. He keeps his breathing regulated, hoping Sherlock will leave him alone so he actually can go to sleep. “I’m sorry, John,” whispers Sherlock as he tiptoes over to the bed. “I’m no good at this; Omegas are supposed to nurture their Alphas, and I ditched you at a crime scene in the middle of nowhere when you were hurt. Lestrade reamed me out and I deserved it. I’m sorry, but at the same time I wish I could be more sorry. I’m not used to having anyone else look after me, and honestly I’m furious that I have to put up with taking someone else with me or leaving notes now because I have you. I hate that I lost my independence, and I hate that your kiss made me feel like I was melting, like I’d never be whole again without your arms around me and your mouth on mine. I hate this, I hate you, and I wish I’d never met you.”

John clears his throat. “Feel better now that you got all that off your chest?” he questions as Sherlock turns to leave.

The poor boy jumps. “I thought you were sleeping!”

“Clearly. Come here, Sherlock.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Come here.”

Ever so tentatively, Sherlock approaches the bed. “I didn’t mean it!”

John smiles at his young mate, trying to put him at ease. He makes a show of laying on top of his good hand, knowing the boy will realize this means John won’t lunge for him and hit him. Sherlock finally climbs onto the bed, though he curls into a small ball on the opposite end. His knees are touching his chest and both arms are around his knees. His aquamarine eyes are the only part of his face John can see. Belatedly, he realizes the ball of boy is trembling.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John whispers, “It’s okay. I’m not angry, truly I’m not.”

“But I left you at a crime scene! And you were wounded and in pain!”

“Yes, you did. But I’m not angry about that. A little put out, a little hurt, but I’m not angry. Honestly, Sherlock, if I was you I would have left me behind too.”

“I’m not supposed to do that though! This stupid body never does what it’s supposed to, and I hate it! It’s so-so-so…John, my body never does the normal thing. My brain whirls around, lighting on things that are important for a half second before it zips past. I don’t have friends because I have no filter, I blurt out every private detail about people like I’m their own personal advertising billboard. My heart doesn’t work because I don’t care much for people, and I don’t care about the dead bodies that Lestrade and I work with, and that’s why I’m a sociopath. Now I have a mate. Do you know how many people told me I wouldn’t have a mate? People hate me, John, they hate me, and now I’ve gone and found a mate, and I screwed it up because the second, the second I actually found someone who was literally perfect for me in every way, I ditched him at a crime scene! Not only that, but I ditched you when you were in pain, and you didn’t know how to get home, and I just abandoned you! I’m not supposed to be able to abandon you, I’m supposed to nurture and care for you!”

“Sherlock, I’m still not upset. Listen to me: I don’t expect you to suddenly know how to deal with a mate. That would be utterly ridiculous. Inevitably, something like this was bound to happen. We’re not used to each other, we haven’t taken the time to get to know each other outside of the fact that we’re bonded-though your game surely helped,” he added when he noticed Sherlock was about to protest, “but the fact of the matter is that we are bonded with next to no knowledge about each other, so of course you’re going to forget you’re bonded in the heat of the moment, with adrenaline pumping and a killer on the loose. We don’t have the relationship to make you remember me. You’ve lived a long time without having to take someone along, I can’t, and I don’t, expect you to suddenly remember to take me everywhere with you. That’s completely unrealistic.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, he just stays curled in a ball.

“And I’m really not put out that you didn’t nurture and care for me. As the stereotypical Alpha, I’m supposed to be able to protect you, yet you picked up a gun and shot down several Alphas to protect me. Neither of us are a stereotype, but I’m okay with that if you are.”

Slowly, Sherlock nods. “I’m okay with that.”

“Did you find the pink case?” John asks.

Sherlock’s entire demeanor changes instantly. “Yes! I dug it out of a garbage bin. Her phone is missing, which means she planted it on the killer. I was thinking we should go to a restaurant and bait the killer into coming so we can see who they are!”

“We?” John repeats. “Sherlock, I can-“ He means to tell the boy no, intends to tell his mate that he has every intention of letting this next dose of pain pills take effect and knock him out for the night, but the boy wants to go to a restaurant, of all things, and he looks so happy that John just can’t tell him no. “I can get changed,” John finishes. “We can go eat as soon as I get changed.”

“Great! I’ll text the murderer!” Sherlock literally skips off.

The next few hours are somewhat of a blur to John. They do not find the murderer as Sherlock had expected, but they did get to have a nice meal at Angelo’s before they ran out the door to chase a taxi which Sherlock believed the murderer had taken. John’s pain medication had taken effect at that point, so he wasn’t in pain, but he knew he would be the next day. 

Now they were home, and it was obvious that someone had entered their house. “Sherlock, get behind me!” John ordered, Alpha growl creeping into his voice. Surprisingly, Sherlock follows his directions without complaint. 

John swings the door open and realizes that they do indeed have visitors-several members of Scotland Yard are poking around their flat. “What is this?” John demands, Alpha challenging the others.

“Drug’s bust!” Lestrade exclaims cheerfully from where he’s lounging in Sherlock’s chair. 

“Drugs? Are you serious?” John questions, aghast, at the same time Sherlock exclaims, “That was one time!”

“Are these human eyes?” Donovan asks, dismayed as she holds up the bag. “Why are they in the microwave?” 

“Put those back!”

“You did tell us the suitcase would be with the murderer,” an officer who John believes might be named Anderson tells Sherlock. “And here it is, in the home of our favorite sociopath.” He hefts the bag. 

”Stop it! Put that down! Donovan, put my eyes back! That’s for a sensitive experiment!” He turns to John, expression pleading. “John! Make them stop it! They’re destroying my nest!”  
The trauma in his mate’s tone causes John to growl loudly and ferociously. He can feel his body trembling as it desires to turn into a wolf and force the intruders out, but he restrains, knowing he will only injure himself worse if he morphs now.

Lestrade clears his throat. “Right then. Donovan, put the eyes back! Anderson, put the case down! Everyone else, get out of this house!” After a moment in which everyone rushes to do as they were ordered, he turns to Sherlock. “I am sorry, for what it’s worth. But we need the evidence, and I knew you had already found it. You can’t withhold evidence, we’ve talked about this before. When you find things like this, you are supposed to call us.”

“I found her phone information. It has a GPS. We can track her.” Thus saying, Sherlock turns on John’s laptop and enters in the information. “Where is it, where is it, where is it?” he mutters frantically as he paces, synchronous with the loading circle on screen. 

“Sherlock, taxi!” Mrs. Hudson calls.

“I didn’t order a taxi! Oh look, we’ve got a location!” There’s a momentary pause as he checks the screen. “Stupid! It can’t be here, I’ll refresh! It isn’t here, I would know, stupid, stupid!” He yanks his hair viciously.

“Hey, it’s alright,” John soothes. “Just refresh the screen.”

“Sherlock, the taxi driver is insisting-“

“Mrs. Hudson, I didn’t order a taxi!”

“Hey, it still says that the phone is in our flat.” In the split second it takes John to glance at the screen, his mate has vanished into thin air. “Where’d he go?” he questions Lestrade, who shrugs.

“Right. I’ll refresh it one more time.”

“When His Royal Sulkiness gets back, maybe we can find the phone,” Donovan comments.

“What do you mean, gets back?”

“Weren’t you listening? A cab came for him. I watched him get in it and be driven away.”

“The phone is on the move. The killer was here!” John exclaims. “He took Sherlock! He has my mate!”

“Okay, calm down. Donovan, Anderson, get in the car. C’mon, John. Grab the laptop and get in the front seat, I’m going to need you to navigate.”

John scrambles down the stairs after his missing mate for the second time in one night. Once again, he feels the beginnings of pain, but ignores them because his mate is in trouble. He can feel Sherlock through the bond, so he knows he isn’t dead, but he is certain his mate is with a man who killed four people already for fun, and John doesn’t relish the idea of his soulmate becoming number five.

John leads them throughout the streets of London until they finally stop in front of two buildings. Lestrade begins directing back-up, which he must have called on the way over, ordering his men to split up. John rushes ahead without any thought to his own safety, darting into one of the buildings and running through the hallway. It is only by pure luck that he sees Sherlock as he pushes through a door. Sherlock is in the opposite building, holding a pill to his lips, and John has just enough time to think that his soulmate is truly stupid before pulling his gun and shooting the cabbie dead.


	12. Fallout

Greg Lestrade had had it up to here with Sherlock. Stealing evidence was one thing, threatening to jump off a roof was another, but allowing yourself to be kidnapped by a serial killer had to be one of the absolute worst ideas Sherlock had had in a very long time. It was pure luck that he hadn’t been killed, pure luck and a sniper that might also double as a guardian angel.

“And you couldn’t see who the shooter was?” Lestrade verified for about the tenth time that night.

“No, I told you, it was dark.” Sherlock throws off the orange shock blanket that the paramedics keep trying to tuck around him. “Why are they giving me this? I’m not in shock!”

“Alright, keep it around your shoulders anyway, just in case.”

“I’m not going into shock! Look, the killer must have been a crack shot. The bullet when pulled from the body and run by ballistics was shot from a military-grade weapon, I can guarantee it. Your sniper must be used to killing people, his hands didn’t shake at all. So, an experienced killer, who’s used to protecting others, hands didn’t shake-“ Lestrade is so busy furiously scrawling Sherlock’s deductions that he misses the pause. He glances up to see if Sherlock has succumbed to shock after all when he realizes Sherlock is staring at John. “Never mind. I was wrong.”

“Sorry?” Lestrade is pretty sure he needs to get his ears cleaned, because never in a million years had he thought he would hear Sherlock Holmes say the words ‘I was wrong.’

“I’m in shock! Look, I’ve got a blanket!” Blanket or not, shock or not, Sherlock suddenly leaps from the back of the ambulance like he was lit on fire, runs to John, and kisses him, clutching him long enough for Lestrade to feel awkward and look away. He rereads his notes, and glances back up at John and Sherlock. Oh. Well. This was…unexpected. John murdered someone for Sherlock, and Lestrade can’t even find a shred of anger in his body about it. He smirks and begins ripping Sherlock’s deductions into tiny little shreds, refusing to let John accept the fallout from shooting the cab driver.

He watches the two walk away, and sees John laugh at something Sherlock says. He mutters something quietly to Donovan, probably trying to excuse them both when they’re laughing at a crime scene, and watches Sherlock halt and pull himself up taller. Intimidation tactic, maybe? He crosses over to a taller gentleman, and the two begin a rapid exchange of words which Lestrade can’t overhear at this distance.   
.............................................................  
As Mycroft banters inanely with Sherlock over which of them upsets Mummy more, his eyes light upon the graying Detective Inspector stalking toward them with purpose. Even from this distance, the man’s chocolate eyes hold Mycroft’s own. There are precious few Alphas that can actually reduce Mycroft Holmes to feeling like an Omega, a scant amount that make him want to promise them the free world. Mycroft knows instantly that Detective Inspector Lestrade is one of the few, and that makes him dangerous. This feeling, combined with the general warmth typically associated with the Alpha who helped Sherlock, was mixing together to be disastrous. Mycroft felt it, and he knew he had to leave. Immediately, before he did something stupid he would regret.

Mumbling something vague to Sherlock and John as a means of excusing himself, he climbs into his car. Once in there, he breathes a sigh of relief, and texts Anthea to tell her they are leaving, and to upgrade the security on both Sherlock and John. After all, with John in his life, Sherlock is apt to get into even more danger, not less, considering John’s Army background.

Anthea climbs into the car and shoots him a look. “You can’t avoid him forever.”

“I have no idea what you mean.” The unspoken message is clear: we’re not discussing this. Not now, not ever.

“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. The Alpha whom you avoid at all costs.”

“I don’t avoid him. I just see no reason to involve myself unnecessarily with the Detective Inspector. If the level of communication which we currently master is sufficient, why should I upgrade to physical confrontation?”

“Oh, stop all your fancy talk. It’s me, Mycroft. I know you’re hiding from him. You kidnapped all of Sherlock’s other friends, yet you expect me to believe that you just aren’t interested when it comes to the Detective Inspector? I may not be a genius like you, but I’m not completely stupid either, Mycroft.”

“I’m not avoiding him.”

“No? Fine, prove it. Go out there and talk to him right now.”

Mycroft grimaces unconsciously at the thought. “See?” Anthea questions viciously as soon as she catches sight of it, “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Explain yourself, Mycroft.”

“I shall do no such thing.”

Anthea rolls down the window. “Yoo-“ Mycroft flies across the seat, slamming his body against Anthea as he desperately mashes the button and prays the window goes back up before Lestrade can look over at them. Then he leans forward and orders his driver forward.

“Do you really believe that’s enough to stop me?” Anthea asks matter-of-factly.

Mycroft sighs in exasperation, realizing she will probably leap out of the moving car soon. “He’s an Alpha, I’m an unbonded Omega.”

“He’s married.”

“But not to his soul mate. His wife is cheating on him, but he doesn’t know it yet. He’ll find out soon. He’ll try to make it work, because that’s the kind of man he is, but her cheating ways will prevail and they’ll end up divorced in the long run.”

“So you’d deny him a chance at true happiness? Really Mycroft, if he is your soulmate, and honestly, what are the chances in that, then what is the worst that could happen?”

“The odds are approximately one in one million. On their own, the odds say it isn’t possible, but combined with the odd feelings I have, I would say that significantly increases the odds to a one in one thousand chance. As to the worst case scenario: my death, death of any children we might have, rape, sex trafficking and forced prostitution of either me or the proverbial children, forced to quit my job, physical abuse, verbal abuse, sexual abuse, mental abuse, emotional abuse, financial abuse, murder of any pets that we might own…” he trails off when he realizes Anthea is staring at him with her mouth hanging open. Mycroft clears his throat awkwardly. “Theoretically, there is a lot that could go wrong.”

“Okay,” answers Anthea awkwardly. “I won’t ask again.”  
.............................................................  
As Greg goes to talk to the Alpha who’s intimidating Sherlock, the stranger ducks into his fancy car. After a moment, the door opens for a woman to climb in. The car sits there for a moment, the woman rolls down the window and calls out, and then the window is put up and the car rolls away.

“Are you alright?” Greg asks Sherlock, concerned.

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You looked like you were getting ready to fight that guy.”

John chuckles at that. “Honestly, I think you’ll find Sherlock is constantly ready to fight that guy. That was Mycroft.”

“The famous Big Brother?” 

“The one and only.”

“Hmmm. Well I was going to tell you guys that I need you to come down to the station tomorrow to give your statements.”

“No thank you,” says Sherlock smoothly.

Greg folds his arms into a no-nonsense posture. “I wasn’t asking.”

“Yes, I’ll make sure we’re there at some point tomorrow, so long as I’m not drugged out of my mind enough to forget this conversation,” John reassures him.

“I’ll text you,” replied Lestrade. “I’m going home for the night. See you tomorrow, John, and you too, Sherlock.”

“No! You can’t go home!” 

Lestrade stares at Sherlock, confused. “Pardon?”

“You can’t go home.”

“Why not?”

Sherlock’s eyes dart around for a moment. The other officers have gotten closer, which is what inspires him to respond, “You just can’t. Trust me.”

Lestrade sighs. It’s late, and he’s tired of Sherlock’s cryptic deductions. “It’s late. I haven’t seen my wife in several weeks for longer than a few minutes. I’m going home, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” He walks off before Sherlock can argue.

Lestrade drives home without event and parks his cruiser in the driveway. There is a strange car which he parks behind. In hindsight, he should’ve been suspicious right then and there, but he’s exhausted. He wants to go home and be with someone who loves him. He unlocks the door and steps inside.

Instantly he is bombarded with sounds-those his wife makes when she is with a man. He would know, he thought he was the only one to ever hear those sounds. He stands there in shock, unable to move, and a distant part of his brain chides him for not listening to Sherlock. The boy probably deduced that his wife was cheating on him and was trying to warn him in the best way possible.

Greg finally unlocks his feet and moves. He moves right back out the door, being sure to slam it behind him so his wife realizes she’s been caught. He plods to his car in a fog, backs out of the driveway, and drives right back to New Scotland Yard.

“Greg!” Sally exclaims as he heads to his office. “What are you doing? I thought you were going home?”

“Home,” Lestrade repeats with a bitter laugh. “I can’t go home, Sally. Sherlock was right.” He swings his office door shut, and Sally watches him curl up on his couch, inexplicable pity welling up inside of her as she realizes how broken, how shattered, her boss looks. Knowing there is nothing she can do for him-or perhaps, nothing he would allow her to do would be more accurate-she heads for home herself, resolving to wake up earlier in the morning so she can at least bring him a good cup of coffee and a pastry.


	13. Morning After

John awakes at around seven in the morning to find Sherlock has curled up with him. His mate is tucked around him cautiously so as not to injure him, which makes John smile. He wants to get up though, so he carefully picks Sherlock up, attempting to move him without waking him up. Of course, his arm gave out with a sharp lancet of pain the second he picks up his soul mate, so he drops Sherlock.

“Ooofff!” Sherlock complains as all the air rushes out of his lungs unexpectedly. “John, what on Earth!”

John’s only reply is a moan of pain. ‘Did I just rip out my stitches?’

“John, you’re bleeding!” Sherlock sounds alarmed, and he runs off for a moment. He returns with a candle, some thread, a sewing needle, a match, ice, and a bandage. “Here, hold this,” he tells John, positioning the ice pack over the bleeding. 

“Sherlock, ice isn’t going to-“ Sherlock lights the candle, and John suddenly realizes what he’s going to do. “Don’t you dare!” he protests as Sherlock climbs atop his hips.

“It’ll be fine, trust me.” Sherlock answers as he lights the candle and passes the needle through it. Once he is satisfied, he threads the needle. “Ready?” He doesn’t wait for an answer as he begins to sew. 

“F**k! Sherlock!” John’s voice trails off into a wordless scream.

“It’s okay, it’s over now,” Sherlock soothes. 

“How’d you even learn to do that?” John demands as soon as he finds his voice. 

Sherlock shrugs. “I’ve sewn Mycroft up a time or two.”

“Yoo-hoo! If you two are done breaking in the bed, I’ve got breakfast here for you! Just this once, I’m not your housekeeper!”

Sherlock sweeps out, and John hears him say, “We weren’t having sex, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Of course not,” she replies. “I was young and married once, I remember what it was like. Sounds like your John’s a screamer, though. My Frank always was, too. I used to think about whether or not to get a gag…” her voice trails off.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock exclaims, embarrassed. “John and I aren’t like that.”

“No? Only a matter of time, then, dearie. Oh don’t be embarrassed, we all know that’s what’s coming. Here’s your breakfast, and here’s John’s, go back to your mate now.”

Sherlock enters the room, balancing two trays nimbly. Without a word, he prepares a tray for John to his liking, then he grabs his own tray and leaves. John huffs, grumpy his Omega is leaving him after they cuddled together, and grabs his tray and walks out to the dining room table where Sherlock is.

Sherlock glances up at him as he sits down. “You were supposed to stay in the bedroom.”

John shrugs with one shoulder. “I’d prefer to eat out here. With you.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer him. In fact, he ignores him for the rest of breakfast, leaving John with the distinct feeling of being frozen out.

Right when he’s made up his mind to address the issue with Sherlock, his phone buzzes. ‘Hi, John, it’s DI Lestrade. Were you guys coming over to give your statement soon?’

‘Sure.’ John types back. “Hey Sherlock, Lestrade wants out statements about what happened last night.”

“He needs us,” Sherlock agrees, grabbing his coat. “He went home last night.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“The signs are all there: his wife has begun an affair. She had the man over last night, and Lestrade came home and found out. I need to see him to deduce how he’s handling it. If he’s contemplating murder, it’s good form for me to talk him out of it, irregardless of how interesting a Detective Inspector could make a murder scene for me. I bet it would be difficult for me to solve.”

John isn’t sure how to respond to that, so he doesn’t even try. Rather, he pops two pain pills in his mouth, swallows them dry, and follows Sherlock down to the taxi.

Once again, as soon as the taxi is stopped, Sherlock leaps out leaving John to pay. By the time John catches up, Sherlock is bouncing on his feet anxiously. “Donovan says Lestrade is in with his wife right now. C’mon, let’s go.”

Donovan rolls her brown eyes. “Yes, he’s in with his wife, which means you are not to go in there. I just explained that.”

“He needs us,” Sherlock insists. He darts off before Donovan can argue.

John follows him. The two of them shove right into Lestrade’s office. 

The man has never looked more relieved to see them in all his life, Sherlock notes. He doesn’t look murderous, just sad, which is probably good, because Sherlock wasn’t too sure he would be good at talking Lestrade out of a murder.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to take John and Sherlock’s statements from that case yesterday. Please see yourself out.” Lestrade turns to Sherlock and John. “Hey guys, give me a few minutes here to pull up the information about the case and I’ll be ready.” As his wife sees herself out, he begins typing at the computer. “You were right, you know, Sherlock. Not really a surprise is it? You normally are.” He laughs humorlessly. Then he straightens, and types at the computer again. “You have got to be kidding me! Sorry guys, someone’s locking me out of the case information. Give me a few minutes…”

Anthea is suddenly at the door knocking. “Hello, Detective Inspector. I was sent for the information regarding the serial murderer Jeff Hope who was killed last night.”

Lestrade stares at her. “You were with Mycroft Holmes last night, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So these orders to take my case are coming from him?”

”Correct.”

“That arrogant little- do you have contact information for him? A phone number he’ll actually pick up?” Anthea offers him her phone. 

There is only one number in the contacts, and Greg rings it immediately. 

Mycroft is sitting at the Diogenes Club when his cell phone rings. Fortunately he is in his inner office where talking is permitted, so he promptly picks up. “Anthea. Is Detective Inspector Lestrade being recaltricant with the case information? Tenacity is an admirable trait, but I believe he may take it too far on occasion. Just reassure him that we actually do need access to the case, smooth his feathers a bit so he doesn’t think we’ve trying to undermine him, and phone me again as soon as we have those files.”

Greg clears his throat. “This isn’t your secretary, Mr. Holmes. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. I’d say it’s nice to finally talk to you, but under the circumstances it’s really not.”

“My apologies, Detective Inspector.”

“I’m assuming you already know why I’m calling, so I’ll cut to the chase. My tenacity, as you called it, is refusing for me to give up my case information. I’ve been stepped on and pushed around a lot lately, and quite frankly I don’t need it from you too.”

“The evidence you gathered is of interest to the government. I’m afraid I must insist you turn over your case files, effective immediately.”

“Mr. Holmes, do you think I’m stupid?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. Yes or no: do you think I’m stupid?”

“Um, no.”

“Then quit humoring me. We both know that you only want the case information so you can destroy evidence-mainly the ballistics report if I had to guess. After all, it sure would be a shame if anyone looking at the information were to connect the dots and realize that it’s awfully odd that Jeff Hope’s killer used a military-grade weapon, and the Omega being threatened at the time had an Alpha who had very recently been discharged from the military, one whose Alpha hormones were running rampant due to a recent injury and of course, the threat to their new mate. Fortunately, that information has already been disposed of, so if you don’t need anything else I will wish you good day and thank you to leave my case with me, sir.”

“Very well. Good day, Detective Inspector.” The click in Lestrade’s ear signals that the mysterious elder brother has hung up.

He storms back into his own office. “I need access to my case files. I do believe your boss is giving up on taking them from me.” 

Anthea raises her eyebrows and quickly fires off a text to Mycroft. With a bit more typing from her phone she has confirmation that she is to give back the access, and to leave the case information alone. She does so, then she leaves Greg’s office.

Lestrade angrily rakes his fingers through his hair, then turns to Sherlock who is gaping at him. “What?”

“You argued with Mycroft and won. Nobody ever wins.”

“Guess I did win. Listen, I need you guys to give your statements. Sherlock, you still maintaining that you didn’t see the shooter?” At Sherlock’s confirmatory nod, he says, “Great, I’ll just write that, and you almost went into shock, so your deductions failed us. Bummer. John, you didn’t see any signs of the killer, right?”

“Well, no.”

“Wonderful.” Lestrade types that into the computer too. “Now then, the ballistics report says the weapon was a British Army Browning L9A1. I’d estimate that there are approximately 5,000 of those in London at the moment, and possibly another 20,000 that are unregistered. Since I’m not going to track down all 5,000 registered owners, and since Anderson was working forensics last night and mucked up the crime scene as per usual, I’m going to say the assassin is impossible to find. That was all I needed.” He makes a few more notations, prints the file, signs it with a flourish, and shoves himself away from the computer. “Wish all my cases wrapped up so nicely as this one. ‘Course that would drive me nuts if they were all left open like this one after a while.”

“Listen, I-“ John began, but Lestrade cut him off.

“I feel like I’d be more concerned if it wasn’t a killer that was shot, ya know?” Lestrade muses. “That’s off the record of course, boys. Now if our killer were to strike again, then I’d have to reopen the case, but I think they’ve probably had their share of murders for the rest of their life, wouldn’t you agree, John?”

“Hmmm? Oh yes, definitely.”

“That’s what I thought too.” 

“Did you need anything else?” questions John.

“No. Get out of here.”

“Are you alright now that you know about your wife?” Sherlock asks, settling into his chair to make it clear he’s not leaving yet.

“How do you expect me to be? I don’t know, I’m furious, and yet I understand it. I’m never home any more, I guess it was inevitable. I just thought our wedding vows actually meant something, ya know? Til death do us part, and all that. We didn’t even care that we weren’t Perfect Matches, they’re so rare nowadays that I just figured we could be happy together, and we didn’t care that we were an Alpha/Alpha pair either. No one else did, so…I thought we were happy. I thought she was proud of me, she used to be. She used to tell me I was her hero for getting all these killers off the street. She hasn’t told me that in years, come to think of it. What I don’t understand is why she wouldn’t come to me. If she missed me, missed the sex, the affection, whatever it was that she went to another man, why wouldn’t she come talk to me first, if she really loved me?”

“Probably because-“ Sherlock began, but Lestrade held up a hand and cut him off.

“If you tell me she never loved me, so help me I will punch you. She told me she loved me, and I want to hold onto that.”

“Because you want to reconcile.”

“It’s a bit early for that yet.”

“You will try; it’s in your nature. But it’s in her nature to be a cheater, so it won’t work out. I wouldn’t expect a long-term happiness with her.”

“You’re a right ball of sunshine today, you know that?”

Sherlock grins at him. “It’s not in your nature to give up without a fight, it’s not in mine to be a ball of sunshine.”

“I think I might want to get back with her. Maybe I’ll prove you wrong.”

“Maybe,” is the dubious response.

“Do you think I’m a moron for that?”

“Gavin, I always think you’re a moron. Like I said, it’s in your nature. You’ll fight for her because it’s what you do. You always fight for the underdog.”

“My name is Greg, you complete tosser. Now get out of my office.”

“Boring, Giles! John, we’re leaving!” 

With a swish of his coat Sherlock leaves, John trailing behind him looking confused. And that’s how Greg Lestrade finds himself in his office giggling like a child eight hours after discovering his wife was cheating on him.


	14. Declarations of Love

Unfortunately for Sherlock and fortunately for John, the two of them have a dry spell of cases after the first one. There are some boring ones, which cause Sherlock to start sending waves of anger and boredom over their bond. He rants to Greg about the importance of not calling him for unimportant cases, abandoning at least ten different crime scenes after loudly abusing everyone in the nearby vicinity, ranging from the tearful family of the victims to the police themselves. 

John finds himself feeling glad for the break, because it both gives him time to heal and gives him time to get to know his mate better. After the first ten days, he gets his sutures (stitches) removed from his shoulder and he gets to begin physical therapy that same day.

Physical therapy is somewhat entertaining, because Sherlock has apparently decided in his boredom that he must be smarter than the therapists, and sets about bossing John with his own exercises, which he came up with after an experiment. His favorite arm exercise for John is one where John must carry him all around the flat, which consequently isn’t even on the exercise list John was given by the therapists. However, Sherlock argues valiantly that he will not be dropped by his Alpha ever again, so John carries him around until his arms give out and he and Sherlock both collapse on the couch in giggles. John has never had this much fun with therapy in all his life.

So he builds up the strength in his arm and he builds his relationship with his Omega. 

After Sherlock got over his conversation about sex with Mrs. Hudson, he seemed to decide he didn’t mind a little bit of affection in their relationship. John would often wake up to find Sherlock next to him in the middle of the night, though the young Consulting Detective still didn’t sleep very much, much to John’s chagrin. However, John's Alpha saw this as the boy feeling safe enough to be vulnerable with him, which was wonderful progress given his history. 

Sherlock would sit next to John during the evening when John was watching the telly sometimes, so John would rub his hair and massage his scalp until he went boneless as a reward. The first time, John had followed instinct and leaned down to kiss Sherlock on the lips. He pulled away as soon as Sherlock froze. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have-“

Whatever apology he was going to issue was lost as Sherlock loops his arm around John’s neck and physically yanks him back down, kissing him. He groans into John’s mouth as he frantically tangles his hands into John’s hair. John’s Alpha surges awake then, barking demands. ‘Lay him down!’ John lifts Sherlock until he is lying sideways on the couch, then crawls atop him, straddling his hips and leaning down. Far from protesting, Sherlock groans his approval. John reattaches their mouths, tracing Sherlock’s velvety lips with his tongue until his mate understands his unspoken demands and parts them. As soon as he does, John’s tongue is plundering Sherlock’s mouth with near-vicious intent, mapping out his mate’s mouth frantically. Sherlock attempts to do the same, but his inexperience plays against him here-John maintains control of the kiss.

‘Mark him!’ John pulls his mouth from Sherlock’s, but before Sherlock can protest he trails a line of kisses down his neck, pausing to briefly bite Sherlock, just hard enough to break skin. 

“John!” Sherlock gasps. John freezes for just a second, realizes that he isn’t being reprimanded, and continues on. He laves the fresh bite with his tongue, then moves to the other side and mouths at the bond bite he placed there months ago. A small, very distant part of his mind notes that this is the first time he’s touched Sherlock’s neck since the day they bonded. “John, I swear if you don’t kiss me right now I’ll-“

Whatever threat Sherlock was about to make is smothered against John’s lips and swallowed down his throat. He presses their foreheads together, overwhelmed with the desire to be closer, closer, closer. Sherlock’s hands are sliding up his stomach and he moves his own down Sherlock’s neck, tracing gently. His hands slide down to Sherlock’s collarbone, and he moves his mouth down to follow the trail of his hands as Sherlock releases a gut-wrenching groan as soon as his mouth is released. John’s hands deftly undo the first of Sherlock’s shirt buttons, and Sherlock’s hands fly up. At first, John isn’t sure if Sherlock is protesting or encouraging him, but as soon as Sherlock’s long fingers wrap around his wrist he releases his mate and leans back, giving him space. 

“I-I can’t,” Sherlock gasps, sounding hoarse. John’s Alpha feels proud as he looks over his mate. His hair is mussed, his voice hoarse, and his eyelids very nearly closed. ‘He looks wrecked, and I did that to him. I made him look like that.’ 

“I can’t. Not yet. I’m scared. I’m so sorry, John.”

“Sorry?” John repeats incredulously. He can see Sherlock tensing and realizes his mate is expecting a fight. “Sorry for what? That was brilliant!”

“It was?”

“Wasn’t it for you?” John inquires.

“God yes! I just didn’t think it was enjoyable for you, since I made you stop.”

“I mean, eventually I would like to have sex. It doesn’t have to be today. And you always have a right to say no.”

Sherlock surges forward and kisses him chastely on the lips. “I love you.”

He freezes then, curling up as he realizes what he said. ‘Stupid, stupid! You just told him you love him after you refused him sex. And what do you mean you love him, you don’t trust him enough to have sex, yet you just handed him your heart? Really? How stupid of you! Caring is not an advantage!’

“Hey,” John calls, tapping Sherlock’s head lightly with his knuckles. “Anybody home?”

“What do you want?” questions Sherlock, still curled into a ball and his face tucked away from John. 

“Just to tell you I love you too.”

“That’s your hormones talking, you don’t really mean it.”

John furrows his brow in confusion. “Don’t you think I’d know if it was just the hormones?”

Sherlock looks up then, a bit of derision across his features. “No.”

“Oh. I’ll just have to tell you some other time then.”

John is as good as his word. He tells Sherlock he loves him several times a day for the next week. He tells him during a strop on the couch with a chaste kiss on the lips. He tells him after he comes back from Tesco’s with milk. He tells him during an experiment with saliva and the breakdown of skin postmortem. He tells him over text. He tells him during breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He tells him when he calls Sally incompetent and reduces her to tears. 

The final time John tells him to prove a point was possibly the most entertaining. Sherlock had invited Mycroft over for dinner, and insisted to John that he was capable of making dinner for himself, his mate, and his brother on his own. He had sent John off to his last therapy and set about making dinner. John learned a very important lesson that day- NEVER leave Sherlock Holmes in the kitchen to make dinner unattended. 

John didn’t realize that spaghetti, Sherlock’s meal of choice, was so difficult for some people. He had never realized that it was possible to nearly burn down a flat by making spaghetti. As such, he got quite the shock when he took a taxi back from the therapist and found the street blocked by fire trucks. He shoves by, reassuring the firemen that he lived there, and found Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson standing outside a smoking 221B. 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, what have you done?” Mycroft demanded as he jogged up too.

“I just made dinner!”

“Spaghetti, Sherlock! I left you alone to cook spaghetti, and you nearly burned our flat down!” John jumps in.

“It’s not like I did it on purpose!”

“I didn’t even know that was possible. How on Earth do you manage that?”

“I couldn’t remember if I actually knew how to cook spaghetti, so I was looking in my Mind Palace for the directions. I just forgot I had the oven turned on and water boiling. There was no need to call the fire department, it’s just a slight bit of smoke.”

John doubles over laughing. He physically cannot stand up, he is laughing so hard. The pain in his mate’s voice, along with overall confusion as to why they are outside while smoke billows out of their flat, strikes him as funny. Combine that with the fact that they are banished outside because he left his mate cook spaghetti of all things and he is nearly on the ground shaking with laughter. When he can finally breathe again, he gasps out, “Oh Sherlock I love you!”

Sherlock and Mycroft both stare at him. Sherlock glances at Mycroft and they quickly have a discussion with their eyes alone that John cannot hope to follow. 

“You really do, don’t you?” Mycroft asks.

“Yes,” John answers him, though he’s only staring at Sherlock.

“Good,” Sherlock answers. “I love you too.”

John takes his hand and they wait together to be told they can go back inside their flat.


	15. The Blind Banker

Finally Sherlock receives an email that ends their time of no cases. “I should warn you, John, Sebastian Wilkes is possibly one of the closest things I have to a friend. We went to school together. He’s beginning to establish himself as a banker-Daddy’s money is still doing wonders at opening doors for him- and he’s a bit older than I am because I skipped a few grades. He doesn’t exactly like me all that much, but he needs help and he’s willing to pay and I’m bored, so we’re taking the case.”

From the moment John first meets Sebastian he wants to punch him in his smarmy face. The man is altogether condescending, calling Sherlock a freak until John snarls at him and puts him in his place. Far from seeming threatened, Sebastian laughs. “So you found yourself a mate? We didn’t think you ever would, little freak.”

“He’s my Perfect Match,” John answers, wanting this arrogant man to know that he is very much in love with Sherlock. 

Sebastian laughs again. “Never would’ve guessed,” he says.

Sherlock doesn’t seem affected by Sebastian’s taunts. He doesn’t send any kind of emotional response over the bond, instead, he darts ahead to the mysterious paintings/graffiti they were hired to investigate, bobbing his head this way and that curiously. It’s almost entertaining to watch, John thinks, though the bank employees seem very confused and not at all amused. Their loss.

John is content to just stay back and watch his mate for a while, knowing that he will be filled in on the information Sherlock’s mind is detailing rapid-fire for him. Sherlock does his head-bobbing thing for a while, ducks outside to stare over a balcony- John does follow him for that, given his history with rooftops and threatening to jump off-then comes back inside.

“So?” John finally breaks his silence to ask as they leave.

Sherlock shrugs. “Several ideas, nothing concrete. It’s rather interesting.”

“I didn’t recognize the graffiti. Did you?”

“No. I’m not sure what it means. I might break into Mycroft’s house to look in some of his code-breaking books. But it could always be something new.” He thrusts his hand up for a taxi and like magic, or a magnet, one drifts to a stop at the curb. He rattles off an address to the taxi driver, an unfamiliar one to John.

“Where are we going?”

“Mycroft’s house.”

The cabbie drops them off outside of a gate. Sherlock’s eyes are lit with an unholy fire as he says, “C’mon, John, let’s go. Wait until the cab driver leaves, then we’ll climb the fence.”

“You’re joking, right? Sherlock, we are not going to break into your brother’s house!” John turns to realize he is talking to air. Sherlock has already begun scaling the fence. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding!” John grumbles, hoisting himself up the fence. 

John jumps down to find his mate grinning maniacally. “I’m timing it to see how long before Mycroft realizes we’re here,” he reports, holding up his wrist with a watch on it. Then he darts off, with John rolling his eyes behind him. 

Sherlock quickly picks the lock of the front door, then steps to the side and enters a code into an alarm box. ‘Alarms disabled,’ is the readout, and Sherlock smirks. “I keep telling him to get a dog, they’re much harder to quiet.” He grows serious abruptly. “But after Redbeard, he won’t.”

Sherlock leads John through the sprawling manor to a large library. “Here John,” Sherlock orders, “you can begin looking over here. This section is the code-breaking section. I’ll check on his personal computer.”

“Doesn’t he have it password protected?”

“Yes of course. What’s the fun otherwise?”

“Right,” John agrees. 

Sherlock’s phone chimes. ‘What are you doing?-MH’

Sherlock stares at his watch. “Five minutes and five seconds since we climbed the fence. Mycroft’s getting slower.” He enters the password into the computer and hits enter with a flourish. The desktop pops up immediately, significantly faster than any other computer John has ever seen. Must be one of the perks of being a minor government official.

‘Get off my computer. There are things on there not meant for your eyes.-MH’ Sherlock ignores this text too, instead navigating through the computer files, which are neatly labeled for him, until he finds the pictures on code-breaking.

Right at that moment, Mycroft’s computer chimes a conference call. Apparently Mycroft elected to have his computer always accept conference calls-an option which technically doesn’t exist-because Sherlock doesn’t get the chance to deny the call before Mycroft’s picture comes up on the screen and he is sighing in exasperation.

“Whatever are you doing, Brother Mine? Or perhaps, since it is obvious you have broken into my house and are currently searching through my information on code-cracking, you would explain the case that you need help with?”

“No fair, Mycroft! You’re cheating!”

“We never discussed the use of conference calls as a factor that would need to be avoided when you broke into my house. Anyway, you’re at a loss, otherwise you wouldn’t be in my house. I could save you hours of mind-numbing research. Which do you prefer?”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffs, annoyed, and he proceeds to tell Mycroft about the case. 

“I see,” Mycroft says when Sherlock had finished. “Do you have a picture of the markings?”

Sherlock pulls up Mycroft’s email, uploads the drawing, then sends it to Mycroft through his own drafts folder.

“You’re becoming slow, Baby Brother. This type of writing is an ancient Chinese number system. In fact, the symbols here are the numbers one and fifteen.”

“Chinese numbers?” John echoes. “But why would that be spray painted inside a bank?”

“That I can’t tell you,” Mycroft answers. “But I’m sure Sherlock can figure it out. Good day gentlemen, and Sherlock do remember to lock up prior to leaving.” The video screen vanishes and Sherlock is left staring blankly at the desktop once more. 

“I thought Eddie Van Coon might be one of the people being notified through the graffiti. He was a new trade banker, recently been to Hong Kong. He’s as good a starting place as any. I also lifted his address book off his desk, it’s got his home address written in it. We can start there.”

 

”You really shouldn’t steal things,” John reprimands, though his voice lacks heat, “and you shouldn’t break into your brother’s house, either.”

Sherlock ignores him, as usual in their relationship thus far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry to all of my lovely readers that it has taken this long for me to post! Excuses time: I had two tests (one a major final) and tonsilitis within the past few weeks. On the plus side, all that crap is resolved now, and I graduated, so I should have more time to write again.


	16. The Death of Soo Lin

The next few days were a bit chaotic. They had found Van Coon dead in his flat. Though the Detective Inspector in charge of the case had believed it to be a simple suicide-which John had personally agreed with-Sherlock's brilliant deductions proved them both wrong. Detective Inspector Dimmock was forced to reexamine the case, and Sherlock was given free rein-though dubiously. 

Another graffiti mark and dead body later, and John somehow found himself where he was now-fighting valiantly to stay awake on top of a stack of books. The books were stacked in their flat to the point that 221B looked like it should appear on the American TV show 'Hoarders' because Sherlock was hoping that the code fifteen and one related to books, the fifteenth page and the first word, and from there-well, John wasn't really sure. 

"Sherlock," he says finally, "it's late. We need to go to bed."

"Mmm? Sure John. Goodnight." It's how quickly he surrenders that makes John realize he wasn't actually heard. 

"Sherlock. We both-"

"Yes, yes, alright," Sherlock agrees again. He puts down his stack of books, kisses John's cheek lightly, and turns to go back to the books. 

"Sherlock," John tries again, "you need sleep too."

Sherlock sighs, but he follows John obediently. He climbs beneath the covers, but John can feel his anxiety leaking through the bond. 

He makes it all of five minutes before whispering, "John?"

"Mmm?"

"Will you come with me to ask a friend about the graffiti? I want to see if it's been spotted in the area at all."

"Sure. In the morning though, it's too late now."

No response, but Sherlock's agitation is like a palpable thing.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock moves a bit closer, kissing John. "Goodnight, John."

John drifts off immediately after. Sherlock stays awake fretting for a bit longer, but eventually he too succumbs to sleep.   
.......…....................................................  
Morning dawns brightly and entirely too early. Sherlock is up and raring to go, so after chugging a quick cup of coffee John is out the door. 

Sherlock finds a young graffiti artist alone the street, and the boy leads them toward a skate park-at least, that's what John thinks it is. 

"Here," the boy says, showing them a yellow design that just might have the same artist as that of the bank graffiti. Only Sherlock and the artist really know for sure. 

After a moment of studying it, Sherlock seems satisfied. "It's the same paint, John," he reports. "We should split up and look for more."

Cautiously John agrees. "Fine, but let me know if you run into any trouble."

"Sure. Call me right away if you find anything."

"Be safe." With this final admonition, John wanders off in search of more yellow paint.

After 10 minutes of fruitless searching, John discovers the brick wall. More specifically, the brick wall that holds the yellow graffiti they're searching for. Taking a quick picture, he runs off to find his mate.

He grabs Sherlock and quickly takes him back to the wall. To his utter astonishment, a plain brick wall is all that greets him. 

"I don't understand!" Exclaims John. "It was right here!"

"John, I need you to concentrate," Sherlock demands. "The average human brain can only remember 64% of what it sees. I intend to maximize your visual memory and retrieve the paintings that way." He cradles John's head and begins spinning them in a slow circle.

"Sherlock what are you doing?"

"Maximizing your visual memory. I just told you that."

"I can remember it just fine!" John exclaims in exasperation. 

Sherlock stares at him skeptically. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, if you'd let me go, I took a picture of it on my phone."

Sherlock stares at him for a moment. "You're brilliant!" He kisses John, then releases him so John can reach his phone.

The stare at the pixelated image together. "Any idea what it means?" John asked curiously.

"No," Sherlock answered, "but now we know it's definitely a code. We need to go to the museum next. There's a Chinese exhibit, possibly an artifacts employee would be able to help us."

"Lead the way," John offered with a sweep of his arm, and Sherlock hustled out to flag down a taxi.  
.............................................................  
Heading to the museum doesn't really seem to help. The young dorky Alpha, Andy, doesn't have an idea of what the code means, and spends most of the time talking about his Omega co-worker he had hoped to date named Soo Lin, who had recently quit. This frustrates John to no end. 

Surprisingly, Sherlock tolerates Andy's ramblings without the slightest hint of complaint, occasionally asking a question about Soo Lin. Finally, he thanks Andy and they leave. 

"Well that was useless," grouses John the second they're in the taxi again. 

"On the contrary, I found it quite informative."

"Do tell, Brilliant One," John means to sound teasingly rude, but the affection in his tone gives him away. 

"Andy said Soo Lin left recently, citing family issues though she has no family. We know a killer has been targeting members of a Chinese smuggling ring-"

"Wait, a smuggling ring?" 

"Yes John, keep up. So, she goes missing. Obvious solution, she's the next one threatened and has vanished before she could be killed."

"Or she's already dead," John suggested. 

"No, she's not. Andy said that the teapots were her passion. The last one she did for a tea ceremony was over two days ago. Yet the opposite tea pot had clearly been soaked in tea more recently. Solution: she's alive and in hiding."

"That's brilliant!"

"Do you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry."

"No, it's...fine."

"So we need to break in tonight to find Soo Lin and convince her to translate the code."

"We are not breaking into that museum."

"Sure, John," Sherlock said, with a glance at the cab driver, and that's all that was said about that topic. 

At eleven thirty that night John was woken up by Sherlock smacking his arm, "John! John!" 

"Wassit?" John mumbles. 

"Let's go!"

John's first mistake is that he doesn't ask where, exactly, they're going at eleven thirty at night. He just climbs into the taxi with Sherlock and promptly goes back to sleep on his mate's shoulder. His second mistake is agreeing to enter the stupid museum. His third mistake will get someone killed.

"John, we're here! Get up!" John blinks the sleep out of his eyes and stares up at the museum. 

"I thought I said no!" John exclaims angrily, but Sherlock has already vanished around the side of the building. He darts around the side too, glaring at his mate once he catches up. “We talked about this, I said no!”

“It’s the only way to save Soo Lin’s life, John! The killer’s closing in!”

He crawls inside of the building without waiting for an answer. Sighing, John crawls in the grate behind him. Sherlock climbs out of the grate first and spots a young woman who can only be Soo Lin. 

“Hello,” he greets her smoothly, deftly snagging the teapot from the air as the startled Omega woman drops it during her tea ceremony. “Careful, those are ancient relics.” He smiles at her then. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. This is my mate, John Watson. We’re here about some graffiti, and we think you might be able to help us.”

The woman looks confused, but she agrees to look over the graffiti. “The sign here, this is the number one.”

“And this is the number fifteen. We know that already, but what does it mean?” Sherlock questions.

Soo Lin’s answer is interrupted by gunfire. She goes pale, and murmurs, “They’ve found me.”

"Right," Sherlock said. "John, protect Soo Lin. I'll be back." He sprints off in the direction of the gunfire, despite John frantically hissing orders to stay put behind him where he's safe. 

John swears, then glances at Soo Lin guiltily. "Sorry."

"Your Omega just ran off to find a killer. You SHOULD be concerned for him."

John stays silent for a moment, then he says, "We should go hide. There's a killer running around."

They duck off into an alcove, John pressed close enough to Soo Lin to feel her heart hammering like a hummingbird in her chest. John strains his ears to hear, and they both stare at each other in horror as the gunshots continue to ring out. John hears Sherlock cry out and silence descends on the museum. John's whole body feels cold. 

Soo Lin shoves him out of the alcove. "Go! Find Sherlock!" John runs off, heart in his throat. His heart regains a normal-ish rhythm as he sees Sherlock up ahead, clearly not shot. 

John grabs him, and Sherlock has enough time to quietly gasp, "John!" before John's lips descend frantically onto his. 

"Mmph!" Sherlock complains, but he goes limp in John's arms. 

After a moment though, he shoves John away. "The shooter! He's still out there, John!"

John swears and runs off again, though he takes a second to link their fingers together. He will not allow his Omega to go off without him again. After a moment, they both register the gunshot and John yanks Sherlock along behind him as he pours on the speed. 

He bursts back into the room where they had first met Soo Lin, and goes pale as he sees her lying there dead. He swears again, guilty and angry. 

Sherlock calls Detective Inspector Dimmock, who shows up almost immediately. "What," he demands furiously, "were you two thinking?! You broke into a museum, confronted a witness, and got that same witness killed! At best, I should arrest you for breaking and entering, at worst, you should be arrested for killing someone!"

"We can catch the killer," Sherlock insists. 

"No, we can't," interjects John. "Our witness is dead, we have a code and two graffiti marks we have no prayer of defining on our own, and we broke into a museum. There is absolutely nothing you or Mycroft can do to help us catch the killer."

"Soo Lin began defining the code. The shooting began before she got the chance, so she must have begun translating when you ran off to find me." He holds up the paper from the table which has a couple words written by the graffiti. "She gave her life to help us, to give us the translation of this code. We can't let that go in vain."

Dimmock yanks a hand through his sandy brown hair. "How much time do you need, and how can I help?"

"I'll take a picture and send it to Mycroft. He can tell us the numbers of the graffiti. We have two words, we can take it from there."

"Right. We're going back to Baker Street to figure this out," calls Dimmock to his team. "So help you if you can't catch the killer," he tells Sherlock quietly in an aside. "You will take the fall if you can't catch the real killer, I hope you know that. There were no witnesses, so you're in danger."

"We'll figure it out," Sherlock promises.   
.............................................................  
The group returns to Baker Street and Sherlock texts Mycroft. After a few minutes, he makes a Skype call to his brother. 

"What?! It's been a long day, I've been fighting with the Chinese-pretend I didn't just say that- what could you possibly need from me at one in the morning?" Mycroft looks like a wreck, and John feels bad for him. He has bags under his eyes, his hair is mussed, and it looked like he had been roused from bed-or possibly not gotten there yet.

"I need a translation on the graffiti we talked about earlier this week."

"Send it to me."

Sherlock emails and they all hear the chime of a notification over the video. Mycroft clicks a pen and begins writing the numbers onto a pad of paper. 

"Got it," he finally says, exhaustion coloring his tone. "Remind me again why this couldn't wait?"

"John and I may be arrested for murder unless we can catch the real killer."

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes!"

"Relax, Mycroft. We've got the code, we can find the real killers now. Email me the numbers," Mycroft scans the sheet through as they speak to each other, "and go to bed. You've done enough for today; John and I are indebted to you."

Mycroft looks like if he had more energy he would protest, so instead he nods and clicks off the computer.

Dimmock chuckles. "That was the big brother?"

"Yes, my brother Mycroft."

"Greg told me about him, too. He thinks he doesn't actually exist."

"He texts Greg sometimes. How does he not know he exists?"

"I think he just doesn't believe the guy is truly your brother. He's got your look though."

"My look?"

"That smart look. Seeing through you, he's got that look too. Even with him looking tired I can see that."

Sherlock nods, crossing over to the stack of books. He begins flipping through them, searching for the words to match the ones that Soo Lin wrote. That is all the sound there is for several hours, the rustle of pages. 

After a while, John's stomach begins rumbling its complaints. He ignores it for a while, but soon reaches the point of no return. 

"We have no food," he reports after a cursory check in the refrigerator. "Sherlock, what will you eat?"

"No thanks," he answers, taking a momentary break to straighten his spine and rub his eyes before delving back into the printed pages. 

"You're going to eat something," John warns, and Sherlock nods in agreement. 

"Dimmock, what do you like?"

"Oh, I normally just have tea and a pastry."

"I'll be back soon," John tells them. 

"Take my card," Sherlock suggests, holding out his wallet. "And can you cash the check from Sebastian, too?"

"Sure." John takes the wallet and leans down a bit to brush his lips against Sherlock's hair. "Love you," he says. 

Sherlock doesn't respond. 

After forty-five minutes, Sherlock has finally cracked the code. "It's a jade pin that's missing, John!" he exclaims excitedly. 

Dimmock stares at him, looking concerned. "John's not back yet, kid."

"How long was he gone?"

Dimmock consults his watch. "Forty-five minutes."

Sherlock pales. "Something is wrong. He'd never be gone that long."

His phone chimes, and he stares at the new text flashing across the screen from an unknown number, taunting him. "If you ever want to see your mate again, Mr. Watson, come to this location." It's followed by an address, one Sherlock knows well from his homeless network. 

"They have John," he reports to Dimmock. He shows him the address. 

"Right, I'll call this in and we'll-" 

The slam of the downstairs door is the only response. Dimmock swears, chasing off after Sherlock.


	17. Kidnapped!

John hustled out of Tesco's, carrying the groceries he and Sherlock would need for the rest of the week, as well as the pastries and tea for himself, his mate, and Dimmock. 

"Excuse me, sir, can you show me the way to Buckingham Palace?" The tourist speaking is a Chinese man who is smiling ruefully at Johm, clearly lost. 

"Sure," John agrees, turning to point in the opposite direction. "You just go-" the sharp pain to the back of his head knocks him to the ground. A second bludgeoning, and he embraces unconscious. 

When he wakes again, he is in some kind of tunnel. He's tied to a chair, he can tell that from small twitches. No way to tell if he's alone. Cautiously, he cracks his eyes open. 

There are three Chinese people nearby, a woman and two men. The woman is clearly the leader. One of the men is digging through his wallet, which makes John mad. The other palms a gun loosely in his hand. 

"Wake up, Mr. Holmes," the woman calls, crossing over and slapping John's cheeks. He slowly opens his eyes and groans, pretending he was just snapped out of his rest by this woman. 

"What do you want?" he questions, ignoring the fact that he isn't Mr. Holmes. Yet. 

"Where is it?"

"The only thing I've found lately is groceries. And I'm going to assume that's not why I'm here."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. Our sponsor has told us a lot about how brilliant you are. We know you cracked our code, and you're smart enough to know which agent double-crossed us, and better yet, where we can find it."

John fixated on one part of her statement, "Sponsor? Who is your sponsor?"

"Not to worry, you'll meet him soon. Not today, though. He's got a grand revealing planned for you and your mate, and that takes time to stage."

John frowns, trying to think of who it could be. Nothing immediately comes to mind. 

"So where is it?"

"I don't know. I haven't figured it out yet."

The woman chuckles. "Brilliant Omega like you, and you expect us to believe you haven't found it yet? We are not fools!"

John wisely decides not to comment on that. 

"John!" 

John's spine straightens with a jerk and he gasps, "Sherlock!" before he can stop himself. 

"Sherlock?" the woman echoes, and the gun in her henchman's hand is leveled at John. "Come out, Mr. Holmes, or we will murder your mate!"

"No!" John gasps. The trauma that his death would cause on his mate is unthinkable. His mate would regress and lose all he had gained after the death of his abusive father. With only this thought in mind, he launches himself, chair and all, at the man with the gun. 

The man is completely unprepared for John's attack, so he loses the gun. Unable to free himself as a human, John morphs into wolf form and wriggles quickly out of the ropes. 

The man leaps up and grabs for the gun, but John lunges and snaps at his arm, driving the man back, cradling his arm and howling. 

John snarls at him in warning. 

Footsteps register within his brain, and he growls for a moment, but the scent wafts his way and he quickly recognizes the scent of his mate and halts mid-growl. "John, look out!" Distracted by his mate, John hadn't heard the leader trying to sneak up on him. 

He throws himself at her, growling. She threatened to destroy his mate, and that means she needs to go. He rips her throat out in a haze of red. 

"John!" Sherlock screams again. While John was busy, he had been grabbed by the henchman who had been looking through John's wallet. The other man is gone, he fled the scene of the crime. 

John jumps on the man, tearing into his leg with a vengeance until the man releases his mate. Sherlock scrambles away, out of reach of the wounded man who is reaching for him again. John snaps at him, throwing him to the ground and killing him too, but not before ripping his arm off as a warning to anyone else who might try to hurt his mate. 

He turns to Sherlock then, sniffing him curiously. 'Is he bleeding, is he hurt, is he afraid of me now?' He whimpers softly at that thought. 

"John?" Sherlock gasps. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?" His fingers begin probing Johns side for non-existent wounds. John licks him from chin to forehead, overjoyed at the fact that his mate isn't cowering away from him.  
.............................................................  
Meanwhile, outside of the tunnels, Dimmock is trying his best to get in. They've just prepared for a hostage situation when they nearly are tackled by a man who flies out. "Help us! There's a wolf in there! He's killing people, he's already killed my boss!"

"Boss of what?" Dimmock asks. 

"Smuggling ring." 

Dimmock arrests the man. 

He is just getting ready to enter the tunnel himself when a tall ginger-haired man leaps his crime tape and sets off in a ground-eating stride toward the tunnels. 

"Hey! You can't go in there!" The man ignores him, so Dimmock runs and grabs the man's arm. "Hey!"

The stranger snarls at him, twisting his arm so Dimmock's grip is broken, then he plunges into the tunnels. Dimmock follows him angrily. 

The man stops so suddenly a moment later that Dimmock nearly hits his back. A blonde brown wolf blocks their path, growling ferociously. Behind him, a lanky figure is sitting on the ground. He lifts his head, and Dimmock recognizes Sherlock. 

"Sherlock," the older boy whispers. "Are you alright?"

"Fine. John protected me. He was calm, but he heard you guys coming and," he gestures helplessly to the anxious wolf pacing in front of him, "this happened."

"John," begins the ginger-haired man, "it's alright. Sherlock's fine, thanks to you, brave Alpha. He's not in danger from me." He stretches out his fingers, though he makes no threatening moves toward the pacing wolf. "Smell the Family Bond, John? Smell the Omega scent? I'm no threat to you or your mate."

The blonde brown wolf inches forward and stretches out his nose. Behind him, Sherlock gasps. "Mycroft, be careful!"

"It's okay, Sherlock. I'm fairly certain John won't hurt me."

"Fairly?" Sherlock repeats. 

"It's alright, John," Mycroft soothes again. "You did your job and kept my brother safe. Can you transform back now?"

A moment later, a blonde brown haired doctor replaces the blonde brown wolf. Ignoring the ginger-haired brother, he whirls and heads to his mate first. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Yes." John levels a look at him. "I am!" Sherlock insists. "I've got a couple small bruises," he holds up his arm for John's perusal, "but otherwise there's nothing wrong."

"John, may we come closer?" Dimmock questions. 

"Sure. Was I stopping you, earlier?"

"You were protecting your mate," Mycroft answers tactfully. 

The two approach, Mycroft grabbing his brother to look him over for himself. Dimmock calls his team in to deal with the two bodies, then hustles the couple and Mycroft out of the tunnels. 

"Go home," he tells Sherlock and John. 

Mycroft is already on his way out. 

"Hey, Mr. Mycroft Holmes! Wait a minute!"

The man stops for him, but from the expression on his face he's less than pleased. Dimmock doesn't care. "Listen, when I tell you not to go anywhere, I need you to listen. It's my job to keep civilians like you safe. You were worried for your brother, I get that, but you need to follow the directions you're given, including staying back when I tell you to."

The man looks shocked. "Detective Inspector, I appreciate your concern, but I have trained for moments like the one I ran into. I am no standard civilian."

"Yeah, Greg mentioned something like that. I don't care who you are, you have to follow directions or I'll arrest you."

He smirks. "You won't be able to hold me for very long."

"I don't need to. Besides, if I arrest you, Greg will probably come talk to you, and you've been avoiding that long enough that I think that if we ever see each other in the future, you will follow my commands to a T. Do we understand each other, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft actually laughs now, a short aborted chuckle, but a genuine laugh all the same. "How novel! I'm being blackmailed."

"I'm not blackmailing you," Dimmock argues. "I'm simply speculating on a possible course of action that is very likely to occur in the future."

"I could deport you, and probably should," is Mycroft's answer, "but I won't. I appreciate your courage. It's refreshing." He nods once decisively, turns smartly on his heel, and prances off. 

Dimmock laughs to himself. Mycroft is as dramatic as his brother. Plus he's tall, ginger, freckled, and exceptionally well-dressed. Not Dimmock's type, but he knows a certain recently-divorced man who would get on good with the elder Holmes. It was almost enough to make him wish Holmes would cross him again, just so he'd have a chance to play matchmaker. 

He shakes his head at his ridiculous fantasies and heads back to his team, barking orders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After accidentally deleting this chapter, I had to rewrite it which took a lot longer. Plus, thanks to all the comments, you guys got s completely different chapter than what I had planned to write. Hope I wrote Alpha!John to your satisfaction.


	18. Finally Bonded

As soon as they made their way through the door of 221B, Sherlock was stripping off his shirt and throwing it at the door. 

"Sherl-" John begins, but Sherlock's mouth is on his, kissing frantically. 

"John, John, I want you. I love you."

"Sherlock, you need to stop," John reprimands. Sherlock doesn't follow directions, so John utilizes his last bit of self-control and shoves Sherlock away from him. It is more difficult now than ever before, because John's Alpha side is lurking close to the surface, ready to sink his teeth into Sherlock's neck, and be bitten in turn, binding them forever. 

He shakes his head, inhaling deep breaths and wondering why the whole flat smells like an Omega in heat. "Sherlock, what have you done?"

"I didn't take the suppressants this morning. I knew I was supposed to have a heat, but I wasn't expecting it until tomorrow morning at the earliest."

"You didn't take your suppressants?" John gasps, fine tremors wracking his body as he attempts to hold himself in check. "Why?"

"I told you already, because I want you. Because I love you."

John nods. "Okay." He springs at Sherlock, catching the boy off-guard, and carries him to their bedroom. 

Sherlock does nothing to fight him, rather he wraps his legs around John's waist and clings to him desperately. 

Tenderly, John lays his mate on the bed, staring down at him with love. Once Sherlock lets out a needy little whine, John climbs onto the bed and begins divesting his mate of his jeans. 

"John!" Sherlock gasps, tugging frantically at John's jumper. Once he gets it off, he hurls it haphazardly across the room. 

After that, it all becomes a bit of a blur for Sherlock-which is exceptionally annoying to him, because he can't remember every exact detail on what John likes, and what he himself enjoys. There are two moments, however, that stand out with clarity: the feeling of John sinking his teeth into Sherlock's neck to renew their bond, and Sherlock's own teeth sinking into John's neck -marking this lovely military man as his. Sherlock's Omega side, which he so often ignored, crept out in this moment, smug in the claiming of a gorgeous, protective Alpha like John. 

Sweaty and sated, Sherlock curls up under John's arm. "Love you," John mumbles softly. Sherlock is too far gone to answer, so he just pats John's arm as he slips off to sleep.  
.............................................................  
Mycroft Holmes is ready for a break. After a long day, and night, and now morning again of arguing with the Chinese, a solution has finally been reached and international crisis averted for the moment. 

Mycroft wanted two things right now, his brother and a high place to think things over. Fortunately, he could have both at the same time- since he had helped pick 221B Baker Street, it had been a stipulation of his own that the place have a 'high ground' area for him. When he had emailed Sherlock to mention it had a second bedroom up the stairs, his brother had offered that he could use it to think whenever he wanted. 

He checked his watch-six thirty a.m.- and told his driver to take him to his brother's. He was certain they would still be asleep, but whenever meant whenever, and then he'd be near Sherlock once he finally did wake. 

Mycroft got into the house without waking anyone and settled into the second bedroom, pulling back the curtain to watch the sunrise before sitting on the bed and steepling his fingers together. He drifted off for a while into his mind. 

A couple bangs pull him from his reverie about an hour later. He goes downstairs to find John is making tea, completely undressed. 

"Morning," Mycroft says politely. 

John jumps and whirls around, grabbing a washcloth to preserve his modesty. "Mycroft?!"

A thud lets both men know Sherlock has woken. "John? Are you alright?"

"Fine, Sherlock. Your brother's here, he surprised me, that's all."

Mycroft's eyes dart down and back up his brother's body, rapidly deducing. He doesn't like what he sees, and his lips start compressing into tiny white lines. Then his eyes catch the bruises. 

Sherlock goes to get his tea from John, taking the mug from him and moves to kiss his mate. Mycroft moves faster, grabbing his brother's arm and throwing him back behind him, arm still latched around his brother's wrist, snarling at John. 

"Mycroft? What are you doing?" Sherlock asks as he stares at his brother's tense back. 

"Come on, we're getting out of here," Mycroft tells his brother. 

"What? No! Mycroft, no!" He continues tugging on his wrist, trying to free himself, but to no avail. "Alright, can we at least go upstairs?" Sherlock offers, attempting to placate his brother. 

Mycroft doesn't answer, but he turns and physically hauls his younger brother up the stairs. Once Mycroft slams the door and locks it, he turns to his brother. 

"What is wrong with you?" Sherlock demands as he massages his tender wrist. 

"Did John hurt you?"

"No, of course not!" 

"Sherlock, it's nothing to be ashamed of, I promise. If you're scared of him, I can call Gregory-"

"Who?" Sherlock interrupts. 

"Gregory Lestrade. The Detective Inspector. I'll call him and have him arrest John, or if you'd rather we can deport him, or kill him-"

"Woah, Mycroft. No killing my mate, and no to deporting or arresting him, either. What are you on about?"

Mycroft shoots him a bland look. "Rape, physical abuse, and sexual abuse all make fine charges for this instance."

Sherlock shakes his head. "It wasn't rape," he argues. "I asked John to bond with me. He didn't do anything I didn't want; nothing was done that I didn't ask for, or even beg for."

Mycroft feels like all the wind was knocked out of his sails. "Oh. I believe I owe John an apology."

"Yeah, you do. John wouldn't hurt me."

"Did it hurt when he bit you?"

"Propriety suits you, brother," retorts Sherlock. 

Mycroft turns almost as red as his hair. "Never mind," he responds, flustered. 

"It didn't," Sherlock reassures him. 

Mycroft nods, back still to his brother. "Sorry. I was just...curious."

"It's all fine."

Mycroft goes down the stairs, and Sherlock heard him apologize to John. Then the door clicks and Mycroft is gone. 

Sherlock slips downstairs and reheats his tea. 

"Is Mycroft alright?" John asks. 

"He saw the bruises," answers Sherlock. "His mind went the wrong direction."

John nods, face grim. "How bad are they?"

Sherlock moves his arm so John can see. "Barely noticeable. You wouldn't see them unless you were looking for them."

John frowns again. "Sorry," he says guiltily. 

Sherlock shrugs. "I don't mind." A moment later, he is draped across John's body, leaning down to suck a mark onto John's neck. "Make some more?" he requests breathlessly. 

"Oh god, yes," John responds. He picks up his mate and carries him off toward the bedroom bridal style.


	19. Mycroft's Dream

Mycroft exits 221B and calls his driver around to take him home. Now that he had processed everything he needed to, exhaustion had set in. He crawls into the car and drifts in a half-asleep state, thinking about his brother and his brother's Alpha. 

Half-asleep like this, with minimal control over his body or his thoughts, Mycroft allows himself to admit that he's jealous. He's a bit jealous of his brother's mate- not that he wants John for himself, not at all, but someone might not be too terrible. It might be nice to have someone who wants to be with him constantly, someone who biology dictates would be the best match possible for him. 

"We've arrived at your home, sir," intrudes the voice of his driver, and Mycroft rouses himself with a quiet gasp and silent admonition that caring is not an advantage. 

He stumbles into his house, fumbles his way up the stairs, and collapses into his bed and immediately drifts off to sleep, before changing into bedclothes or even brushing his teeth. 

*Dream Sequence*  
Mycroft moans as the Alpha above him plunders his mouth expertly with his tongue. Instantly his mind begins categorizing differences between this encounter and all others: this encounter is not marred with the needy feeling of a heat, and his bed-partner behaves in a manner that says he wants Mycroft for himself, not because of who he is or his position, or even because he is an Omega. 

Mycroft isn't sure who is with him, and that should be alarming, but this is certainly not the first stranger he has had in bed with him. Throughout his time living with his parents he's had several- no, stop. Now is not the time to think of them, to think of that. This is the time for the man above him, whoever he is. 

The man detaches his lips from Mycroft's with a growl, dragging in air, body heaving. "Beautiful," he intones in a deep sexy voice. "You're so gorgeous, Mycroft."

Mycroft feels himself flush at the compliment, and hears the chuckle in response. 

"When you blush like that, I want to devour your skin."

The stranger leans down and begins licking paths up and down Mycroft's abdominal muscles with his tongue, tormenting Mycroft. 

"Please," Mycroft begs. 

Another deep chuckle. "Please what?"

"Bite me. Bond me. Please." The words are a shock to him, but he knows this is what he wants, the man above him as his own forever. He has never asked this of anyone before, not even in heat. This man is different, special. 

His partner laughs again. "We're already bonded, darling. Did you forget?"

"I-" Mycroft stammers, unable to speak. Truly, this man is his?

"Shhh, Mycroft," the stranger says again, soothing him. "It's alright, darling. I'll take care of you," another sexy chuckle, "now and forever."

The man bites Mycroft's neck where their bond is located, and Mycroft's shout is loud enough to wake him. His last dream-vision is that of Gregory Lestrade staring down at him lovingly.  
*End Dream Sequence*

Mycroft wakes with his breath in his throat. His body shakes as his lungs heave for air. Once he manages to slow his breathing, he stumbles to the bathroom. 

No, no, no, he surely did not have a dream fantasizing about Sherlock's Detective Inspector. That was inappropriate, he had never even met the man! 

He splashes water on his face, and when that fails to calm his storming mind he strips naked and gets into his shower. The water pounds down onto him in fierce rivulets as he scrubs desperately at his skin as though trying to scour away his phantom partner's touch. 

Cleaning accomplish, he gets out and grabs for a towel, until he catches sight of himself in the mirror and pauses. 

The dream was clearly a product of over-active imagination, Mycroft reassures himself. Fact one: he's not handsome. The man in the mirror isn't skinny enough or muscular enough to qualify. Add to that his hair color (there is nothing attractive about ginger hair) and his freckles (hideous) and he makes the jump from possibly attractive to downright ugly. Fact two: his blush isn't attractive either. No less than five bed partners have told him it's ugly, clashes hideously with his hair, and Mycroft is inclined to believe them. Fact three: he would never bond to anyone. Ever. Fact four: he's only having this dream because Sherlock had been bonded, and his weak-willed Omega biology decided it was jealous. Fact five: the choice of Detective Inspector as dream companion was a coincidence wrought from the thought that the man was an enigma. Mycroft certainly wasn't attracted to him, he had had enough dreams of himself and Prince William, an Omega friend, to know he wasn't actually attracted to Gregory. His Omega biology and his own subconscious had picked an interesting person and Gregory had just happened to be the result. 

Giving himself a decisive nod in the mirror, Mycroft strides off to get dressed. He pulls on his battle armor for the day, his walls of ice that left people at arms' length. Because that was where he liked people, far away; he wasn't lonely, and caring wasn't an advantage.  
.............................................................  
Two hours later, Sherlock and John are lying on the couch, stroking each other's arms lovingly, when the explosion occurs. The men who find them mention something about a gas leak in amidst mumbles about evacuation. 

However, Sherlock is nesting again, and he's not too pleased with the strangers and the scents they bring into his flat. He snarls at them, generally snapping and making a nuisance until they agree to leave him and John to their own devices. 

They are still curled around each other when Mycroft's trusty umbrella is heard on the stairs, and a moment later the government official steps into the room for the second time that day. 

"What was it?" Sherlock demands instantly, untangling himself from John. 

"Officially, the explosion was caused by a gas leak."

"And the politically incorrect answer?" John teases. 

"I don't know. It was a bomb, though no one has stepped forward to take credit yet, and we don't believe anyone will. In fact, we're not sure why they targeted this area at all. We are working closely with the police on this, and we hope to have an answer and a person in jail soon."

Sherlock snorts. "Are you?"

Mycroft freezes. "I'm sorry?"

"Just how closely are you working with the police?"

"Closer than I desire," Mycroft mumbles. 

Sherlock smirks. "Did you rest well once you got home?"

Mycroft goes beet-red, which is fascinating to John, though he doesn't know why Mycroft is embarrassed.

"Isn't he smart enough for you?" Sherlock continues on relentlessly. 

"If you seem slow to me, imagine what ordinary people are like. I'm living in a world full of goldfish."

"Yes, but I just got bonded and mated."

"So?" 

"Oh I don't know. I thought you might have been interested in finding yourself a goldfish."

Mycroft's face is a picture of shock and discomfort. "Change the subject. Now."

"I worry about you, Mycroft. Here alone in your big house, taking on the world by yourself, it must be lonely."

Mycroft's mouth falls open. "I'm not lonely, Sherlock."

"How would you know? I wasn't, until I met John. Then I realized just how lonely I was, and he filled up all the little holes."

"Yes, well, congratulations again. We'll be in touch once we have information about the bomber." With that, Mycroft moved to the door and down the stairs. 

John smiles as he looks at his mate. "Care to explain?"

"He's scared Lestrade is his mate. Feels a bit of something when he looks at him, especially when he saw him in person during the first case of ours together. He dreamed of him this morning after he left our flat the first time."

John laughs. "You shouldn't tease your brother," he reprimands. "Let him figure it out for himself."

Sherlock's answer is cut off by the ringing of his phone. He answers it, then tells John, "it's Lestrade." He nods along in agreement to whatever the man is saying, and clicks his phone shut. "He wants us down at the Yard to consult."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teaser for Mystrade and Courting Mycroft because I'm evil.


	20. The Great Game

Chapter Twenty: The Great Game  
Sherlock and John head down to the New Scotland Yard to look over some case information. "I read your blog," Lestrade tells John as they stride through the Yard together. "I like the name of that first case, 'A Study in Pink.' Very aptly named. Of course, it's nice to read about Sherlock's thought process, too, since he won't actually tell me anything he figures out." This last bit is directed at Sherlock with a bit of an elbow thrown into his ribs as well. He ignores Lestrade.

"Thanks," John responds, "it's always good to have positive feedback."

They reach Lestrade's office and he ushers them inside, shutting the door behind them. "There are a bunch of suits looking into the bombing near your house. I think your brother might be involved," he says. Sherlock nods without saying anything, glancing around the office to deduce anything new about its owner.

"I'm sorry it didn't work out."

"Mmmm?" Lestrade questions wordlessly as he checks his computer to bring up whatever it is he wants Sherlock to look at. 

"Your attempts at reconciliation with your ex-wife."

Lestrade laughs. "And how'd you know that? The way I buttoned my shirt? Position of my paperweight?"

"The angle of your tie, actually."

Lestrade laughs again. "So anyway, here's the picture I want you guys to look at."

Sherlock glances at it, cerulean eyes darting over the screen for about thirty seconds before he crinkles his nose and turns away. "Boring."

"Boring? It's someone who's dead, Sherlock!"

"If the brother has a green ladder, arrest the brother."

"You are literally just making that up!" Lestrade protested.

"Surely even you can see the paint flecks and obvious marks in the soil from a ladder right here," Sherlock argues, indicating a tiny dent in the dirt next to the dead body. "Evidently this person was killed by their brother, as you can tell from the lack of bruises, which indicates caring, and thus if the brother has a green ladder you should arrest the brother."

Lestrade smirks. "Great, thanks!" He sends out an order to his colleagues to go arrest the brother, then leans back in his chair. "You know, we'd better pray your brother never decides to murder you with a green ladder. 'Cuz if he does, you're death is going to be the biggest cold case ever. I wouldn't be able to solve it."

"Mycroft wouldn't murder me," Sherlock says dismissively. "It's more likely he would hire someone else to do it, and you wouldn't be able to trace it back to him no matter what you did."

A loud rapping on the door makes them pause. "Freak, it's for you," Sally says, pushing the door open and holding out a package. 

"Sally, we talked about this!" Greg growls, slipping into Alpha mode like a second skin. 

Sherlock jumps away from the man, making Sally frown at him. "Right, sorry Sherlock," she says. "It's a force of habit," she defends to her boss. "We found this package inside the bombed flat, in a strongbox. It's got your name on it. Anyway, we x-rayed the package, there's definitely nothing explosive in it, but we can't promise that there isn't any biological agents. I would recommend opening it with a pair of gloves and a mask-" Sherlock takes the package and rips it open, dumping the contents into his hands. "Or you could just rip it open," Sally mutters in exasperation.

The four of them stare at the pink phone in confusion. "It's the pink phone," Sally finally states, "from 'A Study in Pink!'"

"No, it's a replica," Sherlock corrects, "but someone went through a lot of trouble to make it seem like the same one."

"A crazed fan?" Lestrade asks.

"Wait a moment, 'A Study in Pink?' You read his blog?" he asks, indicating John with a sweep of his hand.

Sally gives him a look like he's being deliberately obtuse. "We all did."

Sherlock frowns at that but says nothing. After a moment, he powers on the phone, and they all listen to the voice mail that was left- a series of five pips, followed by a picture of an empty room.

"Um, what was that?" John asks.

"Pips. It's a sign that the bombing will happen again."

"When, where, how?" John questions. "How do you even know that?"

"Pips John! Don't you know history?"

"Apparently not," John answers.

"Anyway, we have to go look around. I believe I know this place, I've seen it before. Oh, this is wonderful! It's been so dull since...how long have I been bored John? It feels like an eternity!"

"Around two hours and thirty minutes, since a bomb went off near us this morning," John replies after consulting his watch.

"Right! An eternity! C'mon John, let's go!"

"Wait!" Sally cries. "I need you to look over something for me!"

"No, you don't," Sherlock retorts.

Sally stands her ground. "Yes, I do. John, can you go grab something off the printer for me? It's in the room three doors down, you can't miss it. The code to access the printer is 23556. Then you just push the green button and the paper spits out." She grabs Sherlock's arm and hauls him out of the room before John can agree.

Sherlock is dragged along by the Alpha, which really bothers him. He's out of sight of his mate, which his Omega side knows is his protector. Of course, after shooting a bunch of men dead in Afghanistan Sherlock knows he doesn't really need a protector, but it's nice to have his mate nearby all the same, it feels safer. He frowns and considers the benefits and risks of yanking his arm from Sally's grasp. If there's anyone who he might think would actually hurt him, it would be either Donovan or Anderson, and yanking his wrist free would probably just upset her more.

She stops after a moment, shoving him bodily into her own office. "What?" he demands, not wanting her to see how upset he is.

"Are you alright?"

"Please tell me you did not drag me in here simply because you've suddenly decided you're my friend."

"Don't be ridiculous, we're not friends. We're colleagues, and even that we shouldn't be."

Sherlock arches one eyebrow, a condescending technique he copied off his big brother. "Did you ask me in here just to insult me?"

"No, I brought you in here to talk about John."

"What about him?"

"I saw the way you flinched when Lestrade used his Alpha voice. I sat through the classes, I know that that is often a sign of abuse. If it's John, we can get you away from him."

"John is my mate!"

"That doesn't mean that abuse doesn't sometimes happen between mates. Even if you are newly bonded, which I noticed you are, we can take steps to keep you away from John. Regardless of what I tell you, you're not a freak, and if he's hurting you then you need to get away. We can help keep you safe."

"It wasn't John."

"So you were abused?"

"Yes, well done, you were actually right about something," Sherlock comments, his tone only a little mocking. 

Sally takes it in stride. "Was it your big brother? Lestrade talks about him sometimes, how he watches everything. If it's him, it will certainly be more difficult to get you away from him, but it's still doable."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, it wasn't Mycroft. It was my father, and he's dead now, good riddance! Sorry, that's a bit not good."

"Don't be sorry. If he hurt you, there's no need to be sorry."

Sherlock frowns. "He was still my father. I shouldn't be glad he's dead."

"You don't have to mourn him, either," Sally tells him, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. "When you hugged Lestrade, when you threatened to jump off the roof of the hospital, he told me there were things that I didn't understand, but that you would be alright. Was this what he meant? He knew you'd been abused?"

"He found out that day. Very good, Sally."

"I'm smarter than you like to give me credit for."

"Yet you're dating Anderson," Sherlock fires back.

"We broke up," counters Sally.

Sherlock appears flummoxed for just a moment. "I'm sorry."

She smirks. "No, you're not. You're rejoicing on the inside. I'd make a sociopath joke, but the honest truth is that I'm rejoicing on the inside, too. He went back to his wife, and I'm just done with him now."

"You deserve better."

"Thanks, Freak. I appreciate that." She smiles to let him know she didn't mean that statement offensively, and then swings her door open, allowing the young Omega to exit. 

"John, let's go have a look around!" Sherlock calls.

Lestrade follows them, though he's not invited, knowing that if Sherlock finds anything that resembles a bomb he is more likely to try to detonate it than to call someone to actually deal with it safely.

They wind up in 221C, and at first glance it appears that the room is indeed the one that was shown in the picture. There is a pair of sneakers on the floor, which Sherlock instantly drops to the ground to examine, despite knowing that they could be a bomb. The phone rings, making both Alphas in the room jump, though Sherlock only rolls his eyes.

"Hello?"

The conversation tells them of a case to solve regarding the sneakers, and that in twelve short hours a bomb will go off if the case is not solved. Sherlock hangs up, looking a bit troubled. He grabs the sneakers up off the floor and carries them upstairs to his flat, where he instantly begins twisting the shoes this way and that looking for evidence.Greg and John watch him for a bit, then when they realize there's no use in trying to engage him, they set up a date to go to the pub and Greg leaves after wringing a promise from John to keep him updated.

It's silent for a bit, at least until Sherlock decides he can't see whatever it is that he needs to see through his own microscopes and drags John down to the labs at Saint Bart's.

"Anything I can help with?"

"No, I think I'm onto something, I just need to confirm it."

John settles back against the counter, rolling his shoulder listlessly.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, tomorrow we have a chiropractor coming to visit," Sherlock says. He moves over to the computer and begins an analysis of different chemicals, so he's free to speak as the computer runs through the data and does some of the work for him.

"Why do we have a chiropractor coming?" John questions.

Sherlock shrugs. "Thought it might be nice for your shoulder. I noticed you've been favoring it a bit today, it probably got tight due to all of your maneuvering during my heat, so I figured I'd get someone to help loosen you up again. He comes highly recommended from Mycroft."

"Thank you," John states. "That's very sweet of you, to notice that I was hurting and to do something about it."

"It's my job as an Omega," Sherlock tells him. "That much, at least, I remember."

"C'mon, don't start that again," John says as Sherlock turns back to the computer. He catches his mate's arm and tugs him gently closer, so that he is sure Sherlock is looking at him. "I've told you, I don't mind if you're not the Omega stereotype."

"I want to be better," Sherlock explains in a rare moment of vulnerability. "I want to be a better Omega for you."

"I don't want a better Omega," John responds sincerely, hoping Sherlock can read the truth in his body, "only you."

The door to the lab swings open, and Molly bustles in. "Oh, sorry!" It's too late, the damage is already done. Sherlock moves away from John, offering him a half-hearted smile before he moves back over to the microscope and stares through it. Whatever moment they had had has been lost, and it takes all of John's willpower not to snarl at Molly for it.

"Jim, hello," Molly calls as a short black-haired man enters into the lab. "This is Sherlock and his mate John. Jim's in the IT department. Office romance," she explains, chuckling nervously.

"John Watson, hi," John says, leaning over and offering his hand to introduce himself. He is ignored, for the man is staring rapturously at Sherlock.

"So you're Sherlock Holmes," he says, rocking back and forth on his heels while gazing at Sherlock like the man hung the stars in the sky. "Molly's told me all about you, and about your cases. Are you working on one now?"

John's honestly considering ripping this man's head off, and Sherlock is getting agitated too. If it's not bad enough that John's emotions are distracting him, he now has to deal with the overly-friendly man in front of him. He's trying to ignore him, trying to block it all out, but John seems to be snarling for blood. Sherlock lets his gaze sweep the man in front of him. His deductions surprise him-how blind is Molly, truly?- and the word slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. "Gay!"

"What?" the man demands, drawing back and looking confused. 

"I said hey," Sherlock corrects himself, smiling up at the man with a fake grin plastered on his face. Then he goes back to his microscope. 

Jim takes a step forward and knocks the petri dish nearest Sherlock onto the floor. He fumbles with it for a moment before placing it back, mumbling "Sorry!" under his breath all the while. John turns away, afraid of what he'll say if he doesn't. Once Jim has fixed his mess, he glances at Sherlock again, though he moves over to his girlfriend now. "Well, I better be off. It was nice meeting you." 

Sherlock ignores him, eyes fixed on something only he can see. Frustrated, John says, "Yeah, you too."

The man gives him an odd look, almost as though he is perusing John and John has somehow come up wanting. Then he leaves.

"What did you mean, gay?" Molly demands of Sherlock the moment the door closes behind him. "He's not gay. We're having quite a lot of sex."

'Oh, dear Lord, I did not need to know that,' John thinks to himself.

"It was all there." In a few moments, Sherlock has laid out everything that led to the realization that Jim was gay, concluding with, "that and the extremely suggestive fact that he left his number," which is tugged out from beneath the petri dish, "and I'd say you're better off cutting all ties now."

Molly's face twists in pain, and she leaves the room in a hurry.

"Charming, well done," John comments as soon as the door is closed.

"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"

"Kinder? No, no Sherlock. That...wasn't kind."

Sherlock doesn't answer, and the two men lapse into silence again. Much later that night, Sherlock finally gets the answer they are looking for, posting it online for their bomber to read. The game is on.  
.............................................................  
"I don't understand," Lestrade tells Sherlock.

"Nothing new, really," Sherlock remarks flippantly.

"No, I'm serious," Greg insists, trying to see if Sherlock realizes how weird this is. "If there's something suspicious about the death of Connie Prince, why point it out?"

"Good Samaritan."

"Who press-gangs suicide bombers??!!"

"Bad Samaritan!"

"Listen, I'm giving you a lot of leeway here. Some poor b*****d is out there covered in Semtex, waiting for you to solve the case, and I'd just like to know- what are we dealing with here?"

"Something new," is Sherlock's completely unhelpful answer.  
.............................................................  
Within a few days, John Watson is kidnapped yet again. This is getting old fast. He rubs his neck and glances around, trying to remember how he ended up here, wherever here was.

"Good morning, Johnny boy!" chirps someone happily. John blinks his bleary eyes and stares at the man in front of him. He looks vaguely familiar, but John can't place where he knows him. "Don't you recognize me? But of course, that was the point of my disguise. And it was fun, playing 'Gay Jim from IT.'" John has a flash of understanding. This man is Moriarty, and if he's with Moriarty, then Sherlock is in danger. 

"What do you want with me?"

"With you? Nothing, of course!"

Alright then. Clearly John needed to word things a bit differently to get any kind of answer that would make sense. "What I mean is, why am I here with you?"

"Your naivety is endearing, Johnny. You may be the Alpha, but I think we all know Sherlock will come running the moment he realizes you're gone. I've been watching him for a long while, learning all about him. I know how to make him dance like a puppet on a string. Now, I will give you this readout-" he kicks it over to John, "and you will go out there and say whatever I tell you to, or I will blow both you and your mate sky-high. Ta!" And he vanishes into the shadows once more.

John does as he's told, though his mind is whirling as he tries to find a solution that will allow him and Sherlock both to walk away from this. He walks out into the pool, and hears his mate's shocked, "John?"

One glance at him breaks John's heart in two. Sherlock is staring at him in shock, looking as though he's been betrayed. It takes John a moment, and then he realizes what Sherlock seems to believe-that he, John, is Moriarty. Desperately, John looks down at the readout from Moriarty, hoping there's something for him to say. Fortunately, there is.

"Well, this is a nice turnabout, isn't it?" John reads monotonously. He makes sure the device is where Sherlock can see it, and tries not to feel offended at the look of utter relief that crosses his mate's face. "I've stopped other's hearts, I can stop John Watson's next. What should I make him say next? Gottle o'geer, gottle o'geer..."

"Stop it!" Sherlock cries, staring around the pool in horror. "Stop! Show yourself, whoever you are."

This is Jim's cue, and he senses it too, because a moment later he melts from the shadows like a demon summoned from the depths of hell, repeating his monologue about being offended by not being recognized. Posturing done, he grins menacingly at Sherlock. "Is that a Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Both," Sherlock answers dryly, pulling the gun from deep within his Belstaff and pointing it at Moriarty's head.

Far from seeming upset, the man looks pleased. He holds a device in his hand, which he dangles in front of Sherlock as bait. "This is the detonator to your mate's vest. If you shoot me, I will make sure we all go up in flames."

John takes this moment to tackle him from behind. His Alpha hormones are screaming at him to protect his mate at all costs, and John does so in the best way he knows how. He barks "Run!" to Sherlock, throwing all the force of his Alpha voice behind the command. Sherlock flees. Shots fire at his back, but Sherlock is faster. He slams into the doors, nearly breaking them down as he flies from the building.

John turns and jumps on Moriarty's legs, ensuring the man's legs break so he can't follow them. Then he turns and runs from the building too.

He finds his mate outside, shaking from his own adrenaline and quite possibly from fear, too. "John!" the relief is evident in Sherlock's voice, and the boy crashes into him. John staggers from the unexpected weight, and falls to the ground, but he curls his body around his mate's.

"Sherlock! It's alright, it's okay," he continues babbling, not even sure of what he's saying, but knowing he needs to reassure his mate. 

"You're still wearing the vest, get it off John, please take it off, I can't stand to lose you John, please, please," Sherlock says in a litany. 

John stands again and pulls the vest off, throwing it far away from them both. 

"What you did back there, with the tackling of Moriarty, that was, that was...good," Sherlock offers, rubbing his head with the loaded gun. "That was very good."

"Stop that," John chides, pulling the gun from his mate. He pulls him into his arms again, nuzzling into Sherlock's neck right by his mating mark. After a sniff to reassure himself, he says, "We should call Lestrade."

The cry of sirens breaks the air, and Lestrade and his team run up. Sherlock stares at him, mystified. "Ask and you shall receive?" he jokes. John smiles in response. 

"We got a call from Big Brother," Lestrade explains as he ran up to them. "Something about our bomber's newest victim. Who was it? What've you got?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and John feels his fingers dig into his arm. He doesn't complain. "John."

"John was- oh my god," Lestrade mutters. "Where's the bomb?" 

Sherlock points, " Over there."

Lestrade begins barking orders to his people about how to disable the bomb safely. He returns to Sherlock and John, telling them to move away so they're safe. Sherlock tries, he honestly does, but his stupid transport has apparently decided not to listen to him anymore, and his legs keep buckling no matter how many times he tries to stand. 

Sally notices him struggling and runs over to help, since Lestrade's back is turned and he's barking more orders. Between Sally and John, they manage to get Sherlock over to an ambulance, which he practically collapses into without complaint, though he waves the paramedics away as they try to buzz around him. 

"No," he mumbles, "Don't want you to touch me. Just John." Having said his piece, he nuzzles into John's neck, still shaking a bit. 

The paramedics look to John now in confusion, waiting for a command to override his wishes. John gives them his best Captain glare. "You heard him, don't touch him." One of the paramedics sheepishly offers him a shock blanket, and then they all back off an appropriate distance. 

John tucks the blanket around his mate and cradles him close, rocking him slightly in an attempt to soothe him. Apart from them, there is a lot of buzzing and a lot of commotion, but inside the ambulance it is silent.

John jumps to alertness again as someone approaches the ambulance, but relaxes instantly as he identifies Mycroft. "Hello, Mycroft," he greets quietly.

"This is all my fault," Mycroft says as he climbs onto the ambulance. "I'm so sorry, Brother Mine."

Sherlock lifts his head for the first time in a while. "Don't be ridiculous. Moriarty has been watching us for a while, his minions told us that. If he didn't get to us through your case he would've found a different way."

Mycroft shakes his head. "I didn't need to hand you over like a lamb for the slaughter."

Sherlock glares at him. "Quit being stupid, it's beneath you." Mycroft closes his mouth with an audible snap, though it's clear even to John he still has more he wants to say. "Shut up!" Sherlock reprimands.

"I didn't say anything!"

"I can feel your guilt from here. It's annoying and it's disturbing my quiet. It wasn't your fault, I don't blame you and neither does John, so stop blaming yourself and move on to coddling me now."

Mycroft drapes himself around his brother for just a moment, arranging himself carefully around John. "I was so afraid, Brother Mine," he confesses into Sherlock's hair.

"So was I," Sherlock murmurs.

Mycroft straightens himself out again, glances at John with a self-conscious smile, and then places a hand on his brother's back, almost the Ice Man once again. John moves a bit so he can touch Mycroft too, physically reassuring the man he doesn't hold him responsible for the meeting with Moriarty. Mycroft looks shocked, but he doesn't move away.

After an indiscriminate time, Sherlock straightens again to look at his brother. "You should go. Lestrade will be back soon, and he'll want our statements. Unless you want to meet him tonight, you should leave now. Go back to Baker Street, John and I will come whenever we're released."

Without a word, Mycroft stands and vanishes into the darkness like a vampire.

'Not a moment too soon,' John notes dully as he sees Lestrade stride toward them with purpose.

"We checked the building, the bomber got away," he reports. 

John nods, suddenly feeling exhausted. If Moriarty is on the loose, he will bide his time, then strike again. They are not safe; they may never be safe again.

Sherlock's body has stopped its trembling, and he unfolds himself from John. "I want to go home, John," he whines.

"Soon," replies John.

"Now. Gavin, please, we can give you our statements tomorrow. I'm so tired."

"Sorry, Sherlock," Greg answers, looking guilty, "I have to take your statement now. I'll make it go as quick as possible, I promise."

Sherlock drifts in and out for the remainder of the time, not due to shock anymore, but from pure exhaustion. He answers Lestrade's questions to the best of his ability, and then they are finally sent home.

When they arrive at Baker Street, they find Mycroft has made himself at home. He has hot tea and a small plate of snacks for them to eat. Sherlock manages half a cup of tea and two biscuits before he slumps over on top of John snoring, one long arm attached to Mycroft's wrist like a manacle. Mycroft drifts off soon after, head tilted toward his brother in silent supplication. John stays up, bright eyes staring alertly into the darkness for any sign of a threat to his family. None comes, and John drifts off too once the sun begins to peek over the horizon.


	21. First Fights and Startling Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MAJOR SPOILER FOR THIS CHAPTER!! This chapter contains mpreg.

John wakes abruptly to a loud shout. Fumbling beneath his pillow for his gun, his eyes search wildly for the threat. After a moment, he realizes that- 1.) he has fallen asleep on the couch, so his gun is not beneath his pillow, and 2.) they are not being attacked by Moriarty or his minions, Sherlock was shouting at Mycroft and has his arm wrapped around his wrist. Mycroft looks embarrassed, Sherlock looks confused and scared.

"I thought I'd lost you, Mycroft," Sherlock whispers.

Mycroft stares at him. "I'm only going to the bathroom, Brother Mine."

"Oh." Sherlock drops his brother's hand and sits silently as Mycroft meanders to the bathroom. Once he is safely sequestered away, Sherlock glances at John. "Sorry I woke you."

"It's fine." John lays back on the sofa, getting comfortable. He maintains watch until Mycroft has returned from the bathroom, and then he drifts off again. 

A few hours later, they are awake again. Mycroft stretches out the kinks in his back, mumbling soft complaints under his breath. Then he takes his leave and Sherlock and John are left alone in the flat again.

"We're going to need groceries," John tells Sherlock. "Stupid Moriarty kidnapped me before I could get the groceries yesterday." 

Sherlock doesn't answer him, but every time John goes to leave the flat his way is suspiciously blocked. "Sherlock, we can't stay inside the flat forever," he comments reasonably.

"Not forever, that isn't necessary," Sherlock answers him, "but certainly the rest of our natural-born lives is not too much of a stretch."

That makes John laugh. "Honey, you can't even last a week in our flat without leaving for a case or because you're bored. You can't stay in here for the rest of your life."

"Yes, I can. We can have Mycroft's minions deliver the groceries, and experimental materials for me. I could keep an eye on you constantly and be sure you're safe."

"I have to go out for groceries, Sherlock," John argues.

"No, you don't! If you walk out that door right now, then you don't love me, and don't you dare come back!"

"Sherlock, you are being slightly irrational right now. If you want, you can come with me to the store, but we can't go hungry because I was kidnapped yesterday."

"I am not irrational! You don't care about my feelings and you're being cruel!" Sherlock yells.

"Sherlock, you need to listen to me. I cannot hide in here for the rest of my life. I want to be out there, finding Moriarty and making him pay for hurting you. I want to make him pay for scaring you, for making you think you lost me, and for every bit of ground he made me lose now that you think I don't care about you. Of course I care, Sherlock. I love you with all my heart. But we need to be able to go outside, and as of right now we need groceries, and I have to go get them."

"I just told you Mycroft can get them for us!"

"I refuse to rely on your brother for everything. We can get groceries ourselves. Besides, it's not right to make your brother get our groceries for us."

"Why don't you care about what I'm feeling? Doesn't it matter to you?" he demands.

"Sherlock, if you want to discuss feelings with me, then please sit down and discuss them. I will sit right here, in my chair, and you can sit in your chair and we can discuss this like rational adults."

"No, it doesn't matter now. Go ahead, John." Sherlock swings the door open in challenge, glaring at John balefully. "Go get your groceries. I don't have feelings to discuss. I'm a sociopath."

"Sherlock, sit down, we are going to talk about this."

"No! Go get the stupid groceries, John!"

"Sherlock!" John finally yells back.

"Do what you want! Clearly the groceries matter so much more to you than I do!"

"Sherlock!" This time it's a protest.

"I hate you, and your stupid groceries too!" Sherlock runs off toward their room, and the slam of the door echoes throughout the entire flat. Sighing, John shuts the door to their flat before he sheepishly walks over to their bedroom door and taps on it lightly. When there is no answer, he walks in.

Surprisingly, Sherlock is curled up on the bed crying. 

"Sherlock," John croons, touching his Omega in an attempt to soothe him. Sherlock instantly arches into the touch, leaving hope in John's heart that perhaps everything isn't ruined between them. "Hey," he says. "Wipe those tears, yeah? Sit up and talk to me."

"You don't want to talk. You want to go get the stupid groceries."

"The groceries do not matter, okay? You do."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says tearfully, crawling into John's lap, though he is much too large and lanky to fit. John doesn't complain. "I don't know what's wrong with me right now. I know you're right about being irrational, but the thought of you leaving is literally enough to make me want to vomit."

"I understand that your biology is probably making you want to have me within sight all the time right now," John comforts, "but Sherlock, we have no food in the flat, and my biology will not allow my Omega to starve for any reason whatsoever, crazed bombers be d**ned."

Sherlock smirks a tiny bit, but it fades abruptly. "I refuse to be slave to my biology."

"Sometimes you can't help it. Everyone is a slave eventually, for some reason." Sherlock nods. "Will you come get the groceries with me, please?"

After a moment's deliberation, Sherlock jumps up from the bed and grabs his Belstaff coat. "Coming, John?"

"Coming," John agrees, grinning affectionately at his mate. He ruffles his hair as he passes, which causes Sherlock to yelp and retaliate.  
.........................................................................  
Two weeks after the Moriarty incident, Sherlock has come to realize there is something very odd going on. Not externally, there's nothing wrong with John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, or even any of Lestrade's co-workers, unless you counted their stupidity, but there was something wrong with him. Sherlock reviewed the symptoms mentally: change in taste (since when does he not like banoffee pie?), random mood swings (worse than normal), tenderness in areas he was not supposed to have tenderness (unless he was finally getting better pectoralis muscles?), and nausea the other day at the scent of bacon. He considered this for a while, then decided there was nothing for it: he wouldn't know he was pregnant or not unless he took a test. He could just be sick, or maybe going into heat again. 

Well, there was only one way to know for sure. Sherlock jumped up from his chair and grabbed his Belstaff and his passport. "I'm going out, John," Sherlock calls.

He waits a moment or two for John to answer, knowing full-well that John is asleep in the bedroom. When he doesn't answer, Sherlock leaves a note, then he sneaks out.

Once outside, he realizes that Mycroft is probably watching his credit cards, so he can't just go to the store and buy a pregnancy test. First stop: the bank. Once Sherlock has one hundred euros in his pocket (hopefully that will be enough, it's not like he's ever looked at the cost before) he jumps onto the tube. The tube takes him to Dover after about an hour, which is perfect. He's told John he had a great idea for an experiment, and not to worry about him, so he can probably be gone all day before John and/or Mycroft start to worry. It's possible, anyway.

Another hour and a forty minutes later, Sherlock has boarded and disembarked a ferry to Calais, France. The text from Mycroft comes just as Sherlock is leaving the ferry, 'What are you doing? -MH'

'Experiment. -SH'

'Where's John? -MH'

'Sleeping, but I did leave a note. -SH'

His phone chimes with the last text. 'Be safe. -MH'

'I will -SH' he answers, then he turns his phone off and slips it into his pocket. He prays Mycroft believes him, but even if he doesn't, he cannot be there for approximately two hours. Hopefully, that is enough time to research pregnancy tests. Sherlock flags a taxi and has them take him to the nearest library. From there, it takes forty-five minutes to decide that there is literally no "better" pregnancy test, and he resigns himself to the drugstore. 

A trip to the drugstore later, Sherlock has now exited with a pregnancy test burrowed down in a bag, beneath chips, chocolate, and milk, which had all sounded good as he was waiting in line. He gulps the milk without finesse and settled down on the park bench, eating chips as he waits for the urge to find a bathroom to hit. 

Approximately three hours and fifteen minutes after Sherlock first left his flat, he has his answer in his hands. "Pregnant," he whispers to himself in wonder. "I'm pregnant." He keeps whispering the words, hoping that if he whispers it more frequently to himself he will start to believe it. "I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant." His hands cradle his flat stomach as much as possible, curving around nothing. "Hello baby. I'm pregnant. Can you believe it? Now we've got to go home and tell your daddy. Oh my god. John. Does John want a baby? I mean, it doesn't really matter, seeing as how you're already here, but does he want to raise children, or will he make me give you up for adoption? Adoption might be better, I'm not really parent material, but for you I could learn." This quiet monologue keeps him busy for the entire trip back to England, and consequently makes other people shoot him weird looks and avoid him, which is even better. 

As soon as he gets back on English soil, he can feel John's agitation and anxiety through their bond. He sends out soothing thoughts of love and safety as he jumps on the tube that will take him back home. From there it is a short walk back to their flat. John pulls open the door the second he is near and comes flying out it, tackling him with exuberance. "Thought you were gone for good," he mumbles as he sniffs Sherlock's neck.

"I'm here," Sherlock responds, then he doesn't say anything at all because John has pulled him into a kiss that literally makes his toes curl. "If this is what me being gone does, I'm going to leave more often," Sherlock quips. 

John swats him as they head back into the house playfully. Sherlock chuckles, then stops as he considers what lies ahead. John turns around before they even make it into the flat. "Something wrong? I can feel your anxiety."

Sherlock doesn't answer, just leans around him to open the door to 221B. "Sherlock?" John tries again. 

"Sit down, John."

John sits, watching Sherlock warily. "What is this? Are you okay?" 

"I really don't know how to tell you this," Sherlock says, tugging his fingers through his long curls nervously.

"You could just say it," suggests John.

"Alright. John, I'm pregnant."

John sits there in shock. His mouth falls open, and then snaps shut with an audible click. "I- wow. Just, wow. You're sure?"

"The pregnancy test came back positive. That's where I was today. I went to France to get one, because I didn't want Mycroft to find out, and I was going to take you but then I wasn't sure and didn't want to get your hopes up, and it was easier to just go when you were sleeping so I just left. I'm sorry if that bothers you."

John hears Sherlock babbling, but nothing is actually making sense anymore. The only words bouncing around in his brain right now are 'I'm pregnant.' He's going to be a father? Really? "So do you want a boy or girl?" John cuts Sherlock off to ask.

Sherlock seems surprised but he quickly recovers. "Doesn't matter. You?" 

"Little girl would be fun. Cute, you know, do all the little dresses and stuff, but I think I'd be bad with the hair stuff. But I think I'd be better prepared to handle a boy."

Sherlock laughs. "I think you'd be fine no matter what. It's me I'm worried about, with the experiments and the bipolar behaviors. We're going to have to work on that."

John agrees wholeheartedly.

"So, you're happy?" Sherlock questions, eyes roving over John in an attempt to deduce the truth.

"Couldn't be more pleased. I love you," John replies.

"Yes, I love you too."

"When do you want to tell people?" John inquires of his mate.

Sherlock shrugs. "Not tomorrow. It's Guy Fawkes Day. Did I tell you Mycroft is hosting a dinner?"

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, and he invited Lestrade to dinner through me. So it'll be you, me, Mummy, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Anthea."

"Sounds nice," John hums. "I'm surprised your brother invited Lestrade. Thought he was trying to avoid him?"

"He was, but I think he finally realized that he's only hurting them both if they turn out to be mates. I don't want anything to take away from them actually speaking to each other, so I'd prefer to announce it some other time."

"Sure, whatever you want," John agrees.


	22. What Family Does

The next day, Sherlock begins domestic work, ie. cooking. He tells John that he is bound and determined to make an edible food dish to take to his brother's house that evening. However, he will not accept John's input on the matter at all, so John spends most of the day in the library as Sherlock looks through cookbook after cookbook in an attempt to find a dish he thinks he can make. Finally, Sherlock has decided on a banoffee pie, which John is pretty sure he decided on only because it's Sherlock's favorite, and a yellow cake, because Sherlock knows his brother loves cake. 

Next they go to the grocery store, and John gets stuck buying the ingredients because Sherlock is busy trying to look at different concentrations of bleach for a new experiment. After a couple minutes, John calls, "Sherlock? Get yourself over here, part of cooking is getting the ingredients."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but within the next moment he is at John's side eyeing the ingredients. "Which ones?"

"Which ones do you want?" John counters.

"How would I know? How do ordinary people do this? What do you do when you go shopping?"

"I pick whichever is the cheapest, or whichever brand I like the best."

"Pick one, then," Sherlock tells him, swinging an arm imperiously at the shelves. "I bow to your judgement."

"First and only time you'll ever hear that, John," calls a teasing voice behind them. Both Sherlock and John swing around to see Lestrade, a shopping basket on one arm that's completely empty, with a huge grin on his face. 

"I better cherish it," John replies, grinning back. 

Sherlock huffs and whirls around, grabbing supplies off the shelf and tossing them at John before mumbling, "I'm going to get the banoffee pie supplies," as he walks off.

"Think I hurt his feelings?" Lestrade asks John.

John waves a hand. "I'll talk with him, just to be sure. I think he's okay, though. He's a bit nervous about cooking."

"That's a bold move," Lestrade says. "I decided that I would just grab a veggie and fruit tray."

"Good plan," John responds. "Did you want to come with us today?"

"Sure! I'll stop by around 4:15?"

"Great, see you then," John replies, clapping Lestrade on the arm.

John turns around the corner to find Sherlock with his arms full of cooking supplies, trying to get a container of bleach onto his precarious pile. John grabs it before disaster can strike, grabs another bottle just in case, and then walks with his mate to the front. "You know Lestrade didn't mean to hurt your feelings, right?" John reassures as they climb into the taxi holding their groceries.

Sherlock shoots him a look. "I do understand jokes, John."

"Just wanted to be sure. He didn't want to hurt you."

"He's a kind man."

"I told him he could join us in travelling to Mycroft's house."

Sherlock dips his head in agreement. "Sure."

That's all they say for the rest of the trip, until they get to 221B. Sherlock makes a beeline for the fridge, throwing their supplies on the counter and beginning to unload the bags. "John!" he yells, turning to see his mate hasn't yet made it up the stairs.

John runs through the door, staring at Sherlock expectantly. 

"Can you just stand here and watch me? Help me stay focused? Because otherwise I'm going to end up leaving these supplies to do my experiments."

"Yeah, sure," John agrees, moving into the kitchen with Sherlock. "Tea?"

"Yes, please," Sherlock replies, making John stare at him. He's starting to think he likes Sherlock being pregnant, if it means he'll get thanked for doing things.

"It's decaf," warns John.

"But-" Sherlock begins.

"Baby," John reminds him.

Sherlock pouts, but he does take the cup once John actually makes it. Shockingly, he drinks it all too, though with a fair amount of grimacing and pouting so John knows he's suffering. Thankfully, John can feel Sherlock's dramatic feelings throwing through the bond, and he knows that Sherlock doesn't mind the tea.

Watching Sherlock in the kitchen isn't that bad, John decides as he sees his mate begin gathering materials and mixing them together. In fact, there's points like now, when Sherlock is bent over to grab a pan from a lower shelf, that John realizes he would gladly watch Sherlock for hours if he was asked. Sherlock straightens and grins at him. "See something you like?"

"Very much," John practically growls. 

Sherlock's eyes widen a bit, and he goes red. "John," he exclaims breathlessly. "You- I'm cooking!" he sounds scandalized.

John chuckles low in his throat. "I know. I'm watching you, remember."

"Pervert," Sherlock reprimands, though he arches an eyebrow at John playfully, so John knows he doesn't mind too much. After a few more minutes, he has all of the supplies gathered and the cake goes into the oven, followed by the pie into the refrigerator. Then he pulls out the chair next to John and sits down after moving his latest experiment off his chair. 

"What are you thinking about?" he asks John.

"Right now? That you forgot to set the timer on the oven." Sherlock leaps up like he's on fire, digs the box out of the trash, and sets the timer. 

"Done," he proclaims, sitting back down. 

John takes his mate's hand, rubbing a thumb over the back of the hand gently. Sherlock goes boneless, flopping down onto the table, and John smiles at him contentedly. "Right now I'm thinking about how nice you looked cooking food. Wondering if this will be our lives now, if you'll trade out your experiments for cooking once we have a child."

"Is that what you want?" Sherlock asks, suddenly tense, bolting up from the table so he can meet John's eyes.

"No," he responds. "No, I wouldn't ask you to change. To make your experiments upstairs, perhaps, where a baby couldn't get into them, but no, I wouldn't want you to stop doing them completely. As soon as you stop your experiments, you almost become someone else. Sherlock Holmes is a crazy erratic madman. He's a Consulting Detective and a scientist, an experimenter and a mortician. He's my mate and the father of my child, I love him, and for the life of me I would never want him to be anything other than happy, no matter what he's doing. And your experiments make you happy. I know they do. I wouldn't want you to sacrifice that for me."

Sherlock yanks his hand away from John, scrubbing at his eyes which are rapidly filling with tears. "Stupid hormones," he proclaims, and they both laugh.

"I love you too," Sherlock whispers, taking a moment to be vulnerable with his mate.

"I know," John replies, "but it's definitely nice to hear it from your mouth every once in a while."

Sherlock stands then, and moves over to John. He wraps his arms around him and rests his chin on John's shoulder. They stand like that until the timer goes off. The spell is broken, and Sherlock the cook is back in residence. He darts around the kitchen, adding ingredients to the pie and whipping cream until he is satisfied. He's in a frenzy, yet John finds it magical and somehow peaceful. 

They continue along this vein until they hear a voice call out, "Hello!"

"Come in!" Sherlock shouts. 

Lestrade enters the flat a moment later, carrying his trays of fruits and vegetables. "D'ya think this is fancy enough?" Lestrade queries, holding out his platters to John for inspection. 

John gives them a cursory glance. "Sure."

"Mycroft doesn't like oranges," Sherlock pipes up. Before Lestrade can panic, he adds, "But I do!" Sherlock crosses over to the fridge and pulls out the pie and the cake. "Here's my contribution!" he exclaims, displaying the food proudly for Lestrade's perusal.

Lestrade doesn't disappoint, exclaiming over each piece like he's a master chef being presented with a much more astonishing piece than cake and pie. Sherlock is preening like a peacock by the time he's done.

"Ready to go?" John asks once they've wrapped Sherlock's desserts. They dash out the door, flagging down a taxi. How Sherlock manages to flag down a taxi with both hands full John will never understand, but he is suitably impressed all the same. The three men climb into the back seat, and after an awkward moment of rearranging limbs and food, Sherlock rattles off an address and they are shooting off toward Mycroft's house. 

A short taxi ride later, the three men are tumbling out of the car like puppies out of a box. "Holy- how many people live in this house?" Greg demands, staring up at the opulent mansion.

"Just Mycroft."

"What exactly does he do again?"

"Minor government official, if you listen to him," John chimes in.

"Minor, my a*s," Lestrade says.

"Sherlock, darling!" Mrs. Holmes bustles up the path, grabbing her son and kissing him on both cheeks since his hands are full. "Oh, and John!" He gets a kiss too. "And you must be the Detective Inspector who Sherlock helps on cases! Lestrade, wasn't it?" she asks, shaking his hand. 

"Yes, ma'am," Lestrade answers her, shaking her hand politely.

She promptly swats him on the arm. "No need for that ma'am stuff, young man, you'll make me feel old. Sherlock, can you go find Mikey, please? He holed up in his room and won't come out. John, you take those boxes from Sherlock, and you and Lestrade come carry these boxes out to Mikey's patio. He wanted us to eat out there since it's so warm out lately."

Lestrade and John obediently carry the food out to the gorgeous patio, greeting Anthea who is already there. They don't get led inside, which is a shame because Greg really wants to look around. 'Oh well,' he thinks, 'perhaps I can get elusive Big Brother to take me on a tour later.'

Inside the house, Sherlock goes into Mycroft's room. "Mycroft, aren't you coming out? Everyone's here already and-" he freezes as he looks at his brother, who is curled up in the fetal position groaning loudly. "Mycroft, what's wrong?"

"I- Just go get John. Please."

Sherlock leaves his brother immediately and flies down the stairs and out the door. "John, c'mere!" he cries, seizing John's arm and dragging him away from his conversation with Greg and Anthea.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

"It's Mycroft. He's sick, I've never seen him so bad, he's curled up and groaning. He asked for you."

"Okay, I'll go look at him. Stay here and-" 

Sherlock is already darting back inside the house.

John follows Sherlock up to Mycroft's room, and he gently shoves the door open. "Mycroft?" The man in question's eyes slit open, though it's clear even that is taking a lot of effort for him. He groans again, hand twitching toward his stomach. John bustles toward him, slipping efficiently into doctor mode. "What happened?"

"I took the heat suppressants, I thought my heat was coming on...knew Gregory was coming...took two, kept coming...two more...two more...now I hurt everywhere."

"Where's the bottle?" John asks brusquely.

"Bathroom," Mycroft gasps, and Sherlock runs for it.

"This one?" he demands, holding a pill bottle up so his brother can see. Mycroft grunts in agreement and Sherlock hands it off to John. 

John takes the bottle and instantly realizes it's from a different country. "Mycroft, where are these from?" 

"Russia," Mycroft rasps. "They're allowed bigger doses...over there than here...I use these."

Sherlock takes the bottle from John and spins it. "It's a dose and a half of a heat suppressant here," he informs John.

"You took nine times the recommended amount?" John calculates, staring at Mycroft incredulously.

"Not on purpose!" Mycroft protests. "Accident...just didn't want to bond...accident," he repeats again. "So...sleepy..." he mumbles.

"Mycroft, stay awake!" John commands. Mycroft's eyes drift shut, and John slaps his cheeks lightly. "Mycroft! Mycroft!"

"Noooooo! Sleep!" Mycroft mumbles. "Hurts," he whimpers.

"Yeah, I know. Sherlock, keep your brother awake. I'm going to see if I can get ahold of Doctor Sawyer. I have no idea what to expect."

John paces away, pulling out his phone and dialing. After a couple minutes of soft conversation, he comes back. "Great news!" he reports, "Dr. Sawyer says that you should be fine. The muscle cramps, fatigue, and confusion are expected from a dose that large. We're going to need to wake you up every hour to see if you're more confused, Mycroft."

"Sleepy?" Mycroft repeats.

"Yeah buddy, you can go to sleep." Mycroft is out within the next sixty seconds, though he's still curled in the fetal position, his mouth is still twisted in pain, and every once in a while his muscles seize tighter before they relax again. 

"Sherlock," John begins, but then he turns to his mate and sees the tears streaming down his cheeks, "oh darling, it's okay. He's going to be fine."

"I was so scared," Sherlock gasps. "All I could think was that I don't want him to die."

"He's going to be okay," John reassures. "Here, let's get you cleaned up." He leads Sherlock into Mycroft's master bathroom, gently shoving Sherlock atop the toilet. From there, he grabs a washcloth from the rack and wets it, rubbing the cool water over Sherlock's face. "Are you alright?" he asks once he's finished.

Sherlock nods. "I'm sorry."

"Don't ever apologize for getting upset. If it was my brother, I'd be much worse. You're free to express yourself," John tells him.

"What should we do about the people downstairs? Mycroft would want to keep the party rolling, in spite of this," Sherlock says.

"Then that's what we'll do," answers John. "You go ahead downstairs and tell your mother what happened, and tell her that I'm staying with Mycroft for the rest of the day. I'd like you to stay with everyone, though. Mycroft's not out of the woods yet, and it's not going to be pretty as he comes off these drugs, and I'd rather you not see it. Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock debates this for a moment, then agrees. "If there's anything else I can do, let me know."

"I will," John promises. The click of the door a moment later signals Sherlock's exit, and John slips back out into Mycroft's bedroom, pulling a chair close to keep a wary eye on his patient.

Meanwhile, Sherlock goes downstairs and finds his mother in the kitchen preparing plates of food. "Mummy, Mycroft is pretty sick," he lies, not wanting to upset her. No matter if she killed his father or not, he still sees her as the delicate woman of childhood, and he doesn't want to upset her or trigger a sickness in her. "He'll be upstairs for at least the next twenty-four hours. John has volunteered to stay with him. We're going to keep the party running though, because that's what Mycroft asked us to do."

"Oh, poor Mikey! I hope he feels better soon. Should I prepare him some chicken noodle soup? He used to love that when he was a boy."

"He's sleeping right now," Sherlock replies. "Maybe in a bit, if he wakes up. Come, let's go outside."

"Is Mycroft okay?" Anthea asks as soon as they make it out to the patio.

"He's really sick," replies Sherlock.

"Y'know, I'm starting to think you all are having me on," Lestrade says. "Mycroft doesn't really exist, does he? The scary Big Brother isn't actually real. You made him up, and Dimmock and Sally and Anderson all just go along with it to see how long I'll believe he's real. You had me going there for a while, I'll admit. Good one."

"Don't be stupid, Graham!"

"Greg!"

"Greg. Mycroft is real, this is his house, he did invite you over, and he is really sick." As if to prove his point, Mycroft has his first seizure of the night. He wakes up a bit once it's over, John reassures him that he's alright, and then he drifts back off.

"Oh. So he's real, then? I figured that man you were with you just claimed was named Mycroft."

"He's real," Anthea reassures him.

Greg turns a little red and quickly changes the conversation after that. 

The conversation ebbs and flows for a little while, and Sherlock lets it rush around him like a river. He's more concentrated on the emotions he can feel coming through the bond. A little while ago, there was a brief flare of panic followed by intense concentration. Now, there's a tiny bit of disgust, which is overpowered by an overwhelming feeling of compassion. Confused, Sherlock excuses himself to go check on his brother and mate.

He tiptoes upstairs quietly, knocking on the door. At John's answer, he cracks the door and wrinkles his nose. "It smells. Mycroft's a lot sicker, then?"

"It's a good sign, his body's metabolizing the drug," John replies. "It's exiting his system even now."

"He excreted feces all over the bed," Sherlock says, "and that's not good no matter how you word it."

"I did tell you it wasn't going to be pretty," John defends.

Sherlock doesn't respond, he just goes into the bathroom and grabs the dirty clothes, carrying them to the washer and starting the laundry. Then he returns outside.

"Sherlock, what is wrong with Mycroft?" Anthea interrogates.

Sherlock glances around for a minute, checking for the location of the others. Seeing his mother and Lestrade down one of the paths in Mycroft's ginormous garden, admiring the various flowers, he tells her the truth. "He accidentally overdosed on heat suppressants. He took nine times the recommended amount."

"Is he alright?" she inquires fearfully.

"He should be," Sherlock responds optimistically. 

"Good."

"He's lucky he has you to care," Sherlock says kindly. "He allows so few people to be close to him."

"I don't just care because he's my boss, you know," Anthea tells him.

"I know. I would never dare accuse otherwise."

The hours pass, though for Sherlock they drag, because his heart yearns to be upstairs with his mate watching over his brother, and instead he is socializing. Finally they have had the requisite bonfire, and Mummy leaves for the night. Lestrade exits soon after because he has work in the morning, and Anthea leaves too after helping Sherlock clean up. "Call me if he gets worse," she requests, and Sherlock agrees. 

He goes up to check on his brother, but once again John only lets him stay a couple of minutes. "I'm sorry, the stress isn't good for the baby," he says quietly.

"It's okay, I understand." After another check to reassure himself Mycroft is alright, he goes down to the guest room and begins arranging for the night. He strips down to his pants and crawls into bed, curling into the blankets blissfully. He drifts off soon after, exhausted.

He wakes to the doorbell echoing through the house. A quick glance tells him that it is six o'clock in the morning. 'Who comes to the door at six in the morning?' Wiping sleep from his eyes, Sherlock stumbles to the door and swings it open.

"Lestrade?" he says, confused, as he swings the door open. "What-" he cuts himself off with a yawn "-what are you doing here?"

"Maybe some trousers?" Lestrade replies, his face a study in scarlet as he carefully averts his gaze.

That wakes Sherlock up quickly. He grabs a suit jacket of Mycroft's off the coat rack, making sure it's just long enough to cover anything improper. "Sorry, I forgot. I'm decent now. What are you doing here?"

"Well, I knew you and John were forced to stay the night, so I figured I'd bring some breakfast, it's donuts and coffee." Sherlock takes the mug he's handed, inhaling the delicious scent of hazlenut coffee. "And I was up late last night, couldn't sleep, so I made some chicken noodle soup and figured I'd bring some over."

"Thank you," Sherlock says gratefully. "We appreciate it."

"You're welcome. I've got to go, I'll be late for work soon if I don't," Lestrade explains unnecessarily, then he turns and leaves.

Sherlock goes upstairs, carrying the food. To his utmost delight, Mycroft is sitting up and his eyes are open. "Mycroft! You're awake!"

"Yes," Mycroft says, "according to John I've slept for the past twelve hours." He winces as his muscles tighten again, but the wave soon passes. "You've brought food?" Mycroft questions, sniffing the air. "Chicken noodle soup?"

"Your favorite. Lestrade just stopped by to drop it off. He said he was up late last night and he made it so he wanted to drop some off."

"May I have some, please?"

"Yes, but you need to drink it slowly," John tells him. Sherlock grabs a bowl for his brother from the kitchen and returns, pouring the soup from a thermos into the bowl. Then he hands it to his brother.

Mycroft instantly puts it to his lips and begins drinking the broth. "Mmmm, this is good," he comments, overjoyed with the discovery. "I shall write a note to thank the Detective Inspector at my soonest convenience."

Sherlock passes John one of the donuts, then crawls onto the bed to be with his brother as he eats. The food is just what he needs to feel well again, though he passes up the coffee with the excuse of not being thirsty. After all, he doesn't want to clue Mycroft in to his pregnancy, and he shouldn't have the caffeine.

By lunchtime, Mycroft has regained his color-though when Sherlock points this out Mycroft only grimaces and comments about "so am I back to my typical ginger freckly vampire look?". John thinks that maybe he and Sherlock can return home, though he makes Mycroft walk about the house for a bit to prove he'll be fine. Mycroft complies with a fair amount of eye rolling, so Sherlock is quite sure his brother has made a full recovery.

When they go to leave, Mycroft hugs first Sherlock, then John. "Thank you. If you hadn't been here, I don't know what I would have done," he tells John sincerely.

"That's what family does," replies John sincerely.

"Family," Mycroft repeats, looking dazed, "yes, that is what family does, isn't it? I wish you both a good night."

"You too, Mycroft," they call. The two men link hands and travel up the path, climbing in Mycroft's car to take them back to Baker Street.


	23. Meeting Miss Adler

It's not long after Guy Fawkes Day that Sherlock is called into Buckingham Palace. The day starts out like this: Sherlock had been throwing up for most of the morning. When he got a client he pulled himself together long enough to sit with the client, though he was still wrapped in a sheet off the bed, claiming it felt cooler and gentler on his delicate skin. He listens to the client and is genuinely interested, but John puts his foot down at the idea of Sherlock going to a crime scene to examine a dead body when he can't even get dressed. As such, a solution is finally reached that allows John to go to the crime scene with a computer so that Sherlock can examine the scene through Skype and remain in the comfort of his own home at the same time. John is bent over the dead body, angling the laptop for Sherlock to see, when he is interrupted by a helicopter hovering overhead, the sound of the blades loud enough to drown out Sherlock.

"The helicopter is here for you, sir," one of the officers reports to John. Confused, he goes over and climbs inside.

When John is dropped off and given orders to go inside Buckingham Palace, he is even more confused. Seeing his mate, who is still wrapped in just a sheet, John shoots him an exceptionally baffled look. "Are you wearing any pants?" he questions, knowing for certain that Sherlock had not put any on that morning, apparently due to chafing.

"No."

"Oh." The two mates glance at each other and burst into giggles. When John finally gets himself under control again, he asks, "What are we doing here?" Seeing Sherlock about to give a sarcastic answer, he says, "No, seriously, what? Here to see the Queen?"

Sherlock glances up and catches sight of his brother about to enter the room. "Apparently, yes," he drawls, which sends him and his mate into another fit of giggles. 

John catches Mycroft's eye, and realizes from how tightly his lips are pressed that he's a bit angry with them both. "Just once, can you two behave like grown ups?" Mycroft demands.

John smirks. "We solve crimes, I blog about it, and he forgets his pants, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope," he tells Mycroft sassily.

Mycroft rolls his eyes, then launches into a spiel about whatever case he wants Sherlock to take. Sherlock ignores him completely. In the end, he attempts to leave the palace, citing a desire to keep his mysterious client out of his cases because he prefers mystery from only one side of his case. This seems to really make Mycroft grumpy, and he steps on Sherlock's sheet as he goes to walk away. 

"I'll walk away," Sherlock threatens.

"I'll let you," Mycroft replies with his jaw clenched tight.

"Boys, please, not here," reprimands John.

Mycroft seems to recall himself suddenly, and he withdraws his foot from Sherlock's sheet. 

"Sherlock, love, maybe you should go get dressed, and we can hear your brother out," John suggests, and Sherlock miraculously flits off to find a bathroom and put clothes on as he was told to. In a couple of minutes he has left the bathroom fully clothed and seats himself on the sofa next to John.

"The case?" he prompts his brother.

"Irene Adler. She has compromising photos of a certain member of notable reputation. It would be quite disastrous if she were to leak the photos as she has been threatening. Your job is to get the photos from her. She's very careful, doesn't have copies, anything she has is on a single cameraphone."

John shoots Mycroft a look. "It's not that easy."

"Beg pardon?"

"If it was that easy, you could do it yourself. You could have someone steal that phone from her, I know you could, so why won't you? What aren't you telling us?"

Mycroft's mouth twists into a condescending little smile. "Very good, John, looks like Sherlock is rubbing off on you after all. Irene Adler is a dominatrix."

"I don't know what that is," Sherlock admits quietly to John. 

Mycroft most overhear him because in the next moment he looks at his brother and says, "Don't be alarmed, it's to do with sex." He passes John a teacup, and hands one to his brother as well.

"Sex doesn't alarm me," Sherlock answers.

"How would you know?" 

The question is clearly rhetorical, but Sherlock chooses to answer as Mycroft takes the first sip of his tea. "I'm pregnant." Mycroft promptly chokes on his tea, coughing and spluttering until his airway is clear. Sherlock has a self-satisfied expression on his face as Mycroft peruses him. Whatever Mycroft finds on Sherlock's face must convince him his brother is telling the truth, because he appears stunned.

"I didn't know."

"Clearly."

"Then, some form of...congratulations are in order, I presume?"

"Yes," John replies, taking his mate's hand and leveling a challenging glare at Mycroft. "We are both very pleased."

"Then congratulations. Excuse me a moment, please, I got tea on my shirt."

Mycroft hurries off to the bathroom and begins dabbing at the tea on his shirt, his mind whirling like a tornado. He knows he is being cruel to his brother, it is how they interact with each other when others are present, those who cannot know how close he and Sherlock truly are. But now, dear Lord, he was to be an uncle. This is exciting, truly it is, and he is happy, though he means to get his brother on his own some time in the near future so he can discern whether or not his brother wants to have a child. If not, Mycroft will help him, same way as he always does. But if so, then perhaps he had better go look at baby supplies during his lunch break-if he even gets a lunch break today-to pick things for his new niece or nephew. Mycroft puts a stop to that train of thought promptly. 'Better to be sure the baby will be staying, before you go planning a nursery for it,' he reprimands himself mentally. So then, that issue is sorted, the tea is off his shirt, and he makes a mental note to text the American embassy to inform them that his brother is pregnant, and not to do anything to endanger a pregnant Omega. If anything happens to his brother, he will slaughter them personally. Nodding at himself in the mirror, he exits the bathroom, only to be told his brother and mate have already left the palace to engage Irene. Mycroft acknowledges this and instantly texts the Americans his threats.

In the meantime, Sherlock and John have taken a taxi to an area near Irene's residency. They climb out of the taxi and Sherlock straightens his clothes. "How do I look?"

"Really attractive," John answers without pause.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I mean, do I look like I could be a vicar?"

"Sure, I guess," John says agreeably.

"Perfect. Now punch me?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Punch me. In the face. Didn't you hear me?"

John shrugs. "I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext," he quips. "You have a history of abuse, no I'm not going to punch you!"

"For God's sake," Sherlock snaps, and he hauls off and punches John.

John stands there with his mouth hanging open. "What the h**l, Sherlock?" he demands.

"Punch me! Trust me, do it now!"

'Trust me.' The words ring in John's ears, and he decides to follow Sherlock's advice. He pulls back his fist and punches his mate in the face. "Oh! Are you okay?"

"Yes, nice job, you've done well," Sherlock reassures him, staggering away with a hand to his face.

"Let me see," John insists, trying to stop Sherlock.

"No, stop! This is our ticket in!"

"What?"

"Listen, I'm going to need you to set off a smoke alarm inside, okay? Get the opportunity to get me some water to wash off my face, wash it off because you'll be intolerable otherwise, and then set off the smoke alarm once you get that bowl put back."

"Yeah, okay," John agrees, a bit confused.

Sherlock knocks on the door and identifies himself as a young vicar who was attacked and mugged on the street. They are left in, and John takes the chance to ask the woman opening the door for some water. She leads him into the kitchen, and he quickly prepares a bowl of warm water and cloth for his mate's face. "He's through there," the woman calls, gesturing to a parlor.

"Thank you," John answers, and he enters the room, coming to a halt inside the door. There is a naked woman in the room, touching his mate! John stares at the woman, then glances down at the bowl in his hand. "I've missed something, haven't I?" he asks the room's occupants.

"Please, sit down," Irene offers, settling into a chair herself. "Or, if you'd like, I could call the maid for some tea."

"We just had tea, at the Palace," Sherlock responds cooly.

"I know," Irene responds.

"Clearly." Sherlock's gaze shoots her up and down, deducing her, though John can't tell what he sees. At one point, Sherlock's gaze swings over to him, and John stares back at him, confused and utterly out of his depth. Sherlock's gaze swings back to Irene. 

"Do you know the problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes? No matter how hard you try, it's always a self-portrait." She leans forward, one arm across her chest as she stares at Sherlock. "Somebody loves you. If I had to punch you, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too." She shoots a knowing, predatory look at John, and he snaps.

"Ha, ha. Could you put something on, please? Anything at all? A napkin?" he questions awkwardly, offering the cloth in his hand that was meant to be for Sherlock's face.

"Why? Are you feeling exposed?" 

'No,' John thinks, 'what I'm feeling is that you are threatening my mate, and I'd like to take him home, possibly shag him into next week if he's amenable, and forget all about you and your naked body staring at my mate like he's food.'

"Clearly John doesn't know where to look," Sherlock says as he stands up, approaching John with the intent of comforting him. 

Irene approaches too. "No, I think he knows EXACTLY where to look," she counters, grinning at John flirtatiously. Then she looks back at Sherlock. "I'm not sure about you."

"If I wanted to look at naked women, I could use John's laptop," Sherlock answers, holding out his Belstaff coat for Irene to shrug into.

She puts it on without complaint. "Now tell me, I need to know, how was it done?"

"What?" Sherlock still looks cool and collected, but John can tell because of their bond that he has no idea what she is asking about.

"The hiker. With the bashed in head. How was he killed?"

John and Sherlock share a quick glance. "That story hasn't been on the news yet, how did you know about that?" John asks, sitting next to her on the couch.

"I know a police officer. Or rather, I know what he likes."

"Oh. So, you like police officers?" 'Dear Lord, John, is that the best you can do? Are you really trying to engage a dominatrix in casual conversation?' he asks himself.

Irene grins. "I like detective stories." Her gaze slides back to Sherlock. "And detectives. Brainy is the new sexy, you know," she says to John, smirking at him like he's a co-conspirator.

"The man wasn't murdered," Sherlock says, though from the way he stutters in the beginning it's clear he's not entirely unaffected by this crazy woman."The blow was to the back of the head, that's what killed him."

"How do you know that?" Irene questions, captivated.

"The same way I know the victim was an excellent sportsman, recently returned from foreign travel, and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this same room."

"Okay, but how?" Irene demands.

Sherlock smiles triumphantly. "So they are in this room. Thank you. John, didn't you want to return that bowl, or were you planning to hold it in your hands forever?"

"Oh, right," John says, a bit flabbergasted at the way this conversation has changed. He exits the room, gets rid of the bowl, and promptly sets off the fire alarm by lighting a magazine on fire and holding it under the smoke alarm, waving it around cheerfully.

Inside the room, Sherlock sneers for a moment as Irene's frantic gaze darts toward the mirror. "Thank you. Upon hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would look toward her child. Amazing how fire reveals our priorities." He crosses over to the mirror and fiddles with the mantel of the fireplace directly beneath it. In a moment, the mirror slides up to reveal a safe behind it. "Really hope you don't have a baby in here," he tells Irene dryly. "Alright, John, you can turn it off now!" A pause as the fire alarm continues. "I said you can turn it off now!"

"Give me a minute," John calls back, bashing the stupid magazine against a side table. Before he gets the fire completely put out, several men dressed in black (what a cliche) come down the stairs, pull a gun, and shoot the fire alarm. John stares at them in shock, but their only response is to shove the gun at him and push him back into the parlor with Irene and Sherlock.

Meanwhile, Sherlock is standing at the safe, trying to deduce the passcode. "Alright, on the floor," the man with the gun tells John. "Miss Adler, on the floor!"

"What about me?" Sherlock asks. "Do you want me on the floor too?"

"No, I want you to open the safe." The man levels the gun at Sherlock, but Sherlock stares at him cooly, unaffected by the potentially-life-ending weapon that is currently leveled at him.

"American? Why would you care?"

"The safe, now, please," the man grits out.

"I don't know the code," Sherlock replies.

"We've been listening. She says she told you."

"Well, if you've been listening, you'll know she didn't."

"I'm assuming I missed something, but judging by your reputation, I'm guessing you didn't, Mr. Holmes."

"For God's sake, she didn't tell him the code!" John interrupts. "She knows the code, ask her!"

"I've learned not to trust her," the man smirks. "Archer, on the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson in the head."

"What?" John and Sherlock both demand in syncrony.

Sherlock's voice gets increasingly more desperate, begging for mercy for John and insisting he doesn't know the code as the American counts off to three. Just when John is certain he will be meeting his maker, Sherlock yells, "No, stop!" and turns toward the safe. He enters six numbers, and the soft click of the safe unlatching is heard in the tense silence of the room.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Open it, please." 

Sherlock does as he's told, though not before the off-handed remark of "Vatican cameos." 

John responds instantly, knowing about the code from his time in the military. 'Duck and cover, the safe has a gun,' he tells himself quietly. The next couple of minutes are a blur as he, Irene, and Sherlock wrestle with the Americans for their freedom. 'Wrestling Americans for freedom has a huge amount of irony to it,' John thinks as he moves around to check the pulse of the man who took the bullet. "He's dead," he reports.

"You lied," Sherlock says to Irene as he pulls something from the safe.

She laughs. "Not at all." She deals the man holding her hostage a wicked slap across the face with the gun she pulled from him, and the man slumps to the ground. "Thank you, you were very observant. I'm flattered."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Don't be."

"Flattered?" John repeats, a bit lost.

Irene nods. "He knew where to look."

John has no idea what that is supposed to mean, so he ignores it. As he and Sherlock go out into the hallway, they find Irene's friend lying on the ground. John begins assessing her, and doesn't realize that Sherlock and Irene have both left until Kate is sitting up slowly and he then starts looking for his mate. A feeling of alarm shooting through their bond has him running down a hall searching for Sherlock.

He finds him lying on the ground groaning as Irene leans casually against a window. "John," she greets.

"What did you do?"

"Drugged him. He'll be alright, he just needs to sleep it off."

"Why?"

She tightens Sherlock's coat around herself. "I had to get my phone back somehow. He really is very clever. Don't worry, he'll be alright, he'll just sleep it off for a while." Thus saying, she rolls out the window.

John spares no thought to the crazy lady who just fell out a window. Instead, he pulls out his phone and dials Mycroft. 

"Hello?" the posh voice on the other line questions.

"It's your brother. Can you send Anthea or someone, I need to take him to an obstetrician, he was drugged with an unknown substance."

"Anthea is on her way. Are the Americans still with you?"

"I believe they're still downstairs unconscious."

"Good." Mycroft's tone is dark enough it sends a shiver down John's spine, and he was a soldier, for goodness sakes.

Within a few minutes Anthea has hustled through the door, helped maneuver Sherlock into one of Mycroft's black cars, and gotten them both to an obstetrician. She arranges for the waiting room to be completely empty-an unheard of feat- and the next thing John knows he is being hustled back and shaking the hand of a smiling doctor who John is introduced to but he promptly forget his name. It's not important, the only important thing is Sherlock.

The doctor takes Sherlock's blood to run some tests, takes Sherlock's vital signs, and then begins to perform an ultrasound. Sherlock wakes just as the transducer is placed on his abdomen.

"John?" he questions, slurring a bit.

"Right here," John soothes, slipping his hand into Sherlock's. "It's okay, they're doing an ultrasound to check on the baby because Irene Adler drugged you."

"That's not very nice," complains Sherlock, and he floats off again. However, he comes back to himself a moment later when a quiet "thud thud thud" flows through the room. "Wassat?"

"That's your baby, Mr. Holmes," the obstetrician answers him. He counts for a moment and then says, "the heart rate is within range, and the movement is as expected. It doesn't look as though the drugs are affecting the baby at all."

"Thank you," John answers, relief in his voice.

He sits there for a moment longer, stroking Sherlock's hand as he allows the sound of their child's heartbeat to comfort him. They will be alright, the three of them, come what may. He will do whatever it takes to ensure it.


	24. Christmas Cards

A few more months passed since the disastrous Irene Adler incident. Sherlock had recovered fine from his drugging, and the next day he was back to normal, bouncing around the flat and loudly proclaiming his boredom like a drama queen. He had gotten his Belstaff back somehow, and much to both John's and his dismay, had found Sherlock's phone programmed with a new number: that of the dominatrix. That in itself wouldn't be a problem, if not for the fact that she had changed the text alert to a woman receiving pleasure, and seemed to take a perverse amount of pride in texting Sherlock consistently, though he never responded.

Now the boys had other issues to worry about besides Irene. They were back at the obstetrician and getting another ultrasound, this time to determine the gender of the baby. 

"Hello, gentlemen, how are you today?" the doctor questions in a friendly manner.

"Tense, nervous, ready to know the sex of our child," Sherlock bites out.

The doctor smiles at him. "Nothing unusual, then," he quips. He prepares the gel and smooths it over Sherlock's abdomen. Sherlock is completely relaxed, it is his third time doing this. "So see here then, we've got the arm," the doctor tells them both, turning the screen and gesturing to a spot on the screen that looks like it could possibly be an arm as described. "Here is the other, and here's the-hang on-" his voice trails off as he stares at the screen with a furrowed brow. He moves the transducer and clicks around again. 

"Doctor?" John questions, wanting to know right away what the man has discovered.

"What's wrong with my baby?" Sherlock demands. "There should be nothing, I've been doing everything that I've read from trusted pediatricians' and obstetricians' magazines and websites. What's wrong, what's happening?"

"Nothing's wrong, Mr. Holmes," the doctor reassures him. "The arms and legs of the fetus is right here. And over here we have the arms and legs of the second fetus."

"Oh my god," John whispers quietly.

"Congratulations, you're having twins!"

Sherlock stares in shock at the screen. "You're sure? Where was the second child on every other ultrasound I've had?"

"It appears as though they were hiding behind their sibling. Only faint movements allowed us to even see them this time. So then, would you like to know the gender?"

"Yes," John answers for them both, reaching over to take Sherlock's hand.

"The model-the one we knew about- is a little boy."

"Boy," John repeats softly, visions of a curly-haired, blue-eyed tyke running through his mind. 

"The shy one is a little girl."

"A girl. One of each," John whispers reverently.

The doctor manipulates the transducer a bit more until he finally has a clear shot of both babies, then he takes a picture. He hands it to Sherlock, who cradles it in his fingers like a precious gem. 

They don't talk until they're outside, and then only to call a taxi. John thinks they're going home, but to his surprise Sherlock tells the man to take them to a craft store instead.

"Sherlock?" John asks, flummoxed.

Sherlock doesn't answer him. All he does is wait until they arrive at the store and then drag John up and down the aisles until he has found construction paper, and then he picks out greens and reds, bright yellows and pinks and light greens. He grabs a container of glue and a sharpie and adds that to the mix.

"Sherlock, what are we doing here?" John questions as they join the queue. 

"Christmas shopping, John."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"It is traditional to announce the birth of a baby in some form, is it not? Considering Mycroft is the only one who currently knows we are having children, we should make an announcement. Christmas is coming soon, it is the perfect opportunity to announce the imminent birth of our children." They've reached the front of the queue, and Sherlock pulls out his wallet. "You should leave your boyfriend, he's cheating on you," he tells the flabbergasted cashier. "Merry Christmas!" he calls as he leaves.

Sherlock flags another taxi and takes them to get copies of the ultrasound picture. "We'll need a lot," he tells John. "At least eleven."

"Eleven?" John repeats incredulously. "Sherlock, you don't even speak to eleven people!"

"There's your mother and father, but I believe we can combine them, and Harry and Clara will want one too. That's two. My side of the family is my mother and Mycroft, so that's four. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, and Donovan should all receive an announcement too, which takes the total number to eight. Then we'll send to your Army friends: Sebastian, Gregson, and Murray will all get sent cards, so that's eleven. Did I forget anyone?"

"You want to send to my Army mates?" John echoes.

"Of course. They are our friends, are they not?"

"No, yeah, I mean, yeah, that's great, Sherlock. Eleven it is then."

Sherlock orders the copies and runs outside to flag down a new taxi. "Would you be opposed to asking people to be our children's godfathers and godmothers using the cards as well?" Sherlock questions curiously.

"No. Who did you have in mind?"

"Well, traditionally the person is someone closest to you, but Mycroft is my only male friend, and he's the uncle so he can't be godfather too. So I was going to ask Sebastian."

"Sebastian?" John repeats. "Sebastian Moran. You want him to be godfather?"

"Yes, unless you are opposed. Then I was thinking perhaps Donovan could have the role of godmother."

"Now I know I'm hearing you wrong," John says, "you and Donovan hate each other, why would you want her to be your child's godmother?"

"She is cunning and resourceful, though she often misses the bigger picture. She is kinder now that she's not with Anderson, and she calls me Freak as a joke now and seems to look out for me. She's very protective, and seems to have decided that I am someone she needs to protect, based on her behavior when she thought you might be hurting me. I believe our child could do much worse for a godmother. Besides, she likes children. She'd spoil her godchild rotten."

"If that's what you want, then do it," John tells him supportively.

"Yes, but is that what you want? It's our children, John, believe it or not the sociopath does value your input," he jokes.

John cracks a smile. "Honestly, it doesn't matter to me. Just surprised me, is all. So then, will those two be our little girl's godparents? I could see Donovan and Sebastian both being good with a little girl. Honestly, I'd feel better when she starts dating, having Sebastian around as a threat."

Sherlock laughs. "Yes, alright. Who did you want to ask for our little boy?"

"I want Greg as the godfather," John begins.

"Who?"

"Goodness sake's, Sherlock! Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade!"

"Oh, yes, him. That's a terrible name, you know, so plain. Anyway, continue."

"And I think Mrs. Hudson as godmother."

Sherlock breaks into a grin. "She'd love that. We'd better deliver that invitation to her in person though, otherwise we might get beat with a purse or some other such nonsense. We can hand-deliver Lestrade's and Sally's, too."

The cab drops them off and Sherlock bolts inside. He lays out the craft supplies and sets to work. Although John offers several times to help, Sherlock declines. "I'd prefer to do it on my own, if that doesn't offend you," he tells John. "I have an idea, a part of my Mind Palace is dedicated to how I want it to look, but it's a bit difficult to explain." 

"Okay," John replies, and he sets off to make tea. 

After about a half hour of silence, he walks to Tesco's and picks up some groceries for them. A sense of alarm has him sprinting back toward the flat, and he charges up the stairs like an angry bull. Sherlock is sitting at the table still, looking terrified. 

"I finished and you were gone," he tells John.

"Oh babe, I'm sorry," John answers, dropping the groceries and gathering Sherlock into his arms. He lifts them to the couch and pulls Sherlock into his lap. Blessedly, the man still "fits" the same as he always does; much too gangly to be called a comfortable fit, but John cradles him close anyway, loving the feeling of having his mate securely in his arms. He's going to miss this when the twins grow a bit larger, though it's a rare occurrence to begin with.

After a few minutes, he realizes Sherlock has fallen asleep and is snoring softly. He massages Sherlock's fingers until they relax and release the card he is holding. It's the one for Sebastian, because Sebastian's name is written on the front. The card is red, and folded so it opens vertically. John flips it open. One one side, within the red, Sherlock has written, "Merry Christmas! Love John and Sherlock" It's got a picture of them beneath it, framed in light green. The picture itself is one John doesn't remember posing for, and doesn't even remember seeing before. Possibly Mycroft had gotten it off CCTV? Either way, he and Sherlock look madly in love. The next page is the ultrasound of the twins, framed with yellow, with Sherlock's cursive announcing "Surprise! Our Christmas present" and down by each child he has labeled "Baby Girl Holmes" and "Baby Boy Holmes". In pink by their little girl is a thought bubble asking "Will you be my godfather?" John smiles at it, leaning down to brush a kiss against Sherlock's curls. He sets the card down carefully on the side table and ends up falling asleep for a bit himself.

John is awakened by a rude chiming in his pocket. Groaning a bit, he stands and stretches the kinks out of his back. Sherlock has woken some point before him and is bent over the table, examining a slide under his microscope. Curiously, John fishes out his phone and reads the text. "There's been a murder," he tells Sherlock. "Lestrade is asking for us."

Sherlock leaps away from the table excitedly, grabbing his Belstaff and pulling it on. "C'mon, John," he calls impatiently over his shoulder as he heads to the front door. John grabs the cards for Lestrade and Donovan, tucking them carefully into his pocket before rushing out the door after his mate.

At the crime scene, they discover a woman who has been murdered and sliced completely open. Sherlock takes one look at the body and runs away. "Sherlock?" John calls after him in concern. The entire forensics team watches in shock as Sherlock vomits all over the sidewalk. 

He returns wiping his mouth. "Sorry, that's a bit not good," he apologizes. If the team was shocked before, they are now flabbergasted, all of them standing around gaping at him.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade demands. "Are you sick? You should be at home if you're sick. I don't mean to be rude, John, but you shouldn't let him have crime scenes when he's sick. And maybe you didn't catch it, but honestly, you should go home. Or are you high again? I swear, if you're high-"

"That was ONE TIME!" Sherlock shrieks. "I'm fine. Just a bit of a disagreement in my stomach. It's settled now."

"Listen, I really can't have you here if you're sick. It goes against my code of ethics. So please just get into a taxi and go home. I'll even take pictures and bring it to you later if you want, I just can't have you here right now."

"I'm not contagious!" Sherlock argues.

"Hang on," John cuts in, "we have something we wanted to tell you." He pulls the envelope labelled 'Lestrade' out of his pocket and offers it to the man. "We've got one for you too, Donovan," John tells the woman, offering the second envelope to her.

"I don't understand," Lestrade says. "If you're sick-"

"Trust me, Greg. Just open the card," John answers. 

Lestrade and Donovan open the cards together. Lestrade is the first one to respond. "Oh my god, really? A baby?"

"Two babies," John replies, taking Sherlock's hand. "He's not sick."

"Congratulations, you two!" He strongarms them both into hugs, grinning all the while.

"So, yes or no?" Sherlock asks. 

"Yes or no?" Lestrade repeats. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "The question written in bright yellow on your card?"

Lestrade reopens the card and his eyes skim the words. "Really? You want me to be godfather?"

"Of our little boy, yes," Sherlock says. "We chose separate people for our little girl."

"I'm honored. Yes, I'd love to! I'll teach him football, and take him to games, and pick out cute little outfits, it'll be great! I'm going to spoil your kid rotten!"

Right at this moment, everyone seems to realize Sally hasn't said a word since opening the card. John turns to her and realizes she has tears streaming down her cheeks. "I don't understand," she says, looking directly at Sherlock, "I was so mean to you, and you want me to be godmother to your little girl?"

"You are fierce and cunning, even if you often miss the obvious. You tried to protect me from John, setting aside years of personal dislike at the drop of a hat as soon as you saw signs that I might be in trouble. I can think of no one I would rather have for a godmother for my little girl than you."

Sally wraps him in a teary hug, and Sherlock looks a bit surprised but he does hug her back. "Who's godfather?" she asks when she pulls back, rubbing her eyes.

"An Army mate of mine named Sebastian Moran," John states.

"Wonderful. I'm going to need his number. Who's godmother for your son?"

"Mrs. Hudson. Why do you need Sebastian's number?" John queries.

"For the baby shower, of course," she replies. "Do you prefer a shower before or after the children come?"

John and Sherlock share a glance and both realize that if the party gets to be too much they can have a built-in excuse to hide if they have it after the twins are born. "After," they both say simultaneously. 

"Good, then that gives me plenty of time. "Do you have a nursery theme picked out? Or baby registries up yet?"

"Um, no," they both answer together again.

"Let me know as soon as you come up with something. Greg, we're going to have to communicate between the four of us and get this thing planned. Babies are lots of work, and baby showers can be overwhelming too. Don't worry," she says, turning back to Sherlock and John, completely ignoring the panicked look Lestrade is shooting her, "our goal is to make this as effortless for you as possible." She walks away muttering about color schemes.

Lestrade clears his throat. "Right, that's a bit scary," he chuckles. "The body is over here, if you wanted to have a look," he tells Sherlock, sweeping his arm. Sherlock swoops over like an overgrown raven, moving about the body and instantly rattling deductions.


	25. Presents

Sherlock had come to realize something interesting the day after Irene Adler had drugged him (besides the fact that the baby, as they had believed at the time, was fine). He remembered a dazed form of drugged sleep, a sleep with dreams, that had led him to believe that she was in his room. He had a recollection, hazy though it was, possibly a dream, of seeing her when she returned his Belstaff coat. He had believed it to be a dream, but in the morning when he woke the coat was in his room, and that meant it wasn't a dream but reality. She had been in his room and returned the coat to him. It wasn't until later that he realized she had also given her phone number to him as well.

She texted him a lot, which was awkward because she had made her personalized text alert to be that of a woman receiving...pleasure. He didn't like it. At all. Sherlock contemplated the idea that if he didn't text her back it would make her stop. It didn't. She texted him several times a day, and he found himself desperately wishing that he hadn't deleted how to change text tones from his Mind Palace, because once his children came he didn't want to have to discuss why Daddy's phone sounded so strange, or worse yet, why Daddy was getting texts from a Dominatrix in the first place.

Sherlock froze. He realized he had never, not even mentally, referred to himself as the twins' Daddy before. He hadn't been sure what he had wanted to be called, only that he never wanted them to call him Father, as that was the moniker of the man who abused him. Apparently he wanted to go by Daddy, which was a bit of a surprise due to its childish sound, but he rather liked it. "John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" John is in the kitchen washing dishes, but they will keep until another time and Sherlock wants to have this discussion right now.

"What did you want our children to call you?"

"Papa," John answers quickly, "unless you had your heart set on that."

"I want to be Daddy."

"Not Father?" John questions, sounding a bit surprised.

Sherlock shudders. "No, never that! That's what we called my- the man who contributed to my birth, was Father."

"Definitely not that," John agrees. "So then, you'll be Daddy and I'll be Papa."

"What did you want to name them?"

"I don't know. I'm not really good at this kind of stuff. Did any of those books you got from the library include a book of baby names?" 

"Yes. It's due back soon, but I'll renew it."

"Sure. Did you want to look through them now?"

Sherlock jumps up and grabs the book in response. They flip through it together, occasionally calling out names to each other. Blake, Landon, Jonathan, Arthur, Archie, and Reginald are all quickly vetoed. Amy, Victoria, Elizabeth, Georgia, Virginia, Susan, and Joy are soon to follow. After a few hours they come up with nothing they like, so they agree to set the books aside and look another day.  
.........................................................................  
For some idiotic reason, John has decided to interrupt their baby planning with a party. He tells Sherlock on the day before Christmas Eve that they will be hosting a party Christmas Day. Sherlock is in the middle of making a passionate argument against having people disturbing his nest (though they both know he's protesting for the sake of it, really) when he interrupts himself with a startled "oh!"

John is by his side instantly. "Sherlock, are you okay?" He sees his mate cradling his abdomen and feels worried.

"John!" Sherlock exclaims, grabbing John's hand and lying it flat across his abdomen. "Do you feel that?" The sense of wonder in his voice and flowing through the bond tells John what Sherlock himself hasn't, the twins aren't in danger. Far from it. 

"No," he responds, though he keeps his hand there anyway. "They're moving?"

Sherlock sniffles, and John looks up to see him sobbing silently. "I'm just overwhelmed with hormones, don't mind me," Sherlock jokes, scrubbing his eyes. "They're moving, John. They're alive. We're going to be parents!" There is a moment where they both stand together with their hands on Sherlock's stomach, but Sherlock breaks the silence by saying, "the books never mentioned how amazing this feels. It's a life, John! Our children are alive, and they're in there, and they're moving!"

John says nothing; he's smiling so much his face hurts but he can't stop. His children, their children, are moving! He drops down and presses a kiss to Sherlock's abdomen. "Hi, little girl. Hey there, little boy. It's your Papa speaking."

"Oh! They're kicking more John, they're answering you!"

John starts crying too, he can't help it, he's too overwhelmed. This was more than he could ever dream of when his Alpha first spotted Sherlock Holmes across the bar in Afghanistan. He gets back up and pulls Sherlock into a kiss, their salty tears of joy mixing together on their lips. When they break apart, he whispers, "I love you."

"You are my heart," answers Sherlock.  
.........................................................................  
It's Christmas Eve, and John is woken up early by a knock on the door. He rolls out of bed with a fond smile at his sleeping mate and answers the door. A workman of some sort is on the other side, holding a clipboard and looking bored. "Hello, is this the Watson-Holmes residence?"

"Yes, it is," replies John.

"Very good. We just need to confirm color choices and possible mural scenes, then we can get started."

"I'm sorry?" John is sure he woke up too early because the man is making no sense.

"I need your color schemes, and/or ideas for a mural you want on the wall of your nursery. That's why I'm here- Andvari Painting, you know? We paint," the man tells him.

"No, I didn't call for a painter," John answers. 

"No, not you. I think it was your mate. Paid for by a man with the name of...credit card slip says 'M. Holmes,'" the man says, flipping a paper on his clipboard.

"Right," John replies, "come inside a minute, I need to call him to see what he's thinking."

In a moment, he has Mycroft on the phone. "Hey Mycroft, it's John- yeah no listen- yeah that's exactly what I'm calling about. Why- are you sure? Mycroft that's got to be really expensive- seriously? Why- okay I can't argue that- I know paint is bad for pregnant people, I'm a DOCTOR- sure if that's what will make you happy- I really appreciate it, thank you- uh huh, I'll let him know you called- he's still asleep- pregnant people are supposed to sleep more Mycroft- I'll ask him- thank you very much- Merry Christmas to you too- goodbye." John hangs up the phone, then turns to the painter. "Give me a minute or two to wake my mate and get his opinion on the nursery colors, then you can get started and we'll be out of your hair."

Sherlock is sitting up and brushing his tousled hair when John reenters their bedroom. "Who's here, a client? I heard strange voices."

"Your brother called us a painter to get the nursery done as a Christmas present to us both. He also set up things to do around London all day so you're not affected by the paint fumes. Then we're to spend the night at his house, and come back the next morning when the paint is dry, which he says will be in time for our party."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Great, now I need to go get him a better present," he gripes."I'm glad I got you to move all the stuff out of the other bedroom the other day, because we don't have to do it now. What kind of colors do you want?"

"I don't know. What's appropriate for both a little boy and little girl?"

"Animals."

"Like the cutesy little safari scenes?"

"Yes, but no. What about a forest scene? Maybe a river with deer drinking from it, and a bunch of trees. Or perhaps a meadow of flowers?"

"Sherlock, I think you overestimate the time that will take. There is literally one person here."

"For now. He'll call reinforcements, because that's what Mycroft paid him to do."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I know my brother, John." 

To John's shock, the man doesn't even bat an eye when Sherlock makes his request. He requests to be shown the bedroom, and immediately begins sketching on the walls. "We will lock up before we leave," the man assures him as a river begins to take place under his skilled fingers. "Mr. Holmes demanded it."

John and Sherlock pack a bag and head out for the day. Mycroft's black town car is at the curb for them, and they climb in curiously. When they stop a while later, they are in the country, and there is a horse-drawn sleigh waiting in the snow for them. It has a little partition for a driver, and the man smiles at them. "Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson, your carriage awaits, sirs," he says, throwing out a hand to gesture to the sleigh. John offers his mate a hand as they climb in, and they snuggle together beneath blankets, both grinning brightly at each other. 'It's very romantic,' John thinks as Sherlock cuddles against him and twists so he can see the countryside. They sit in silence, neither feeling the need to talk, but enjoying each other's presence just the same. At one point, John brushes a kiss against Sherlock's curls, and Sherlock snuggles closer in response. 

Once the sleigh has stopped, the man leads them inside a tiny cottage, where tea has been set in front of a roaring fire. The driver disappears as John pulls out the chair for Sherlock and helps his mate settle into it. He tenderly brushes a kiss across the hand he's holding, then sits across from Sherlock. His mate's cheeks are a beautiful shade of red, though he's looking down like he's embarrassed. "Alright, love?"

"Fine," Sherlock replies, automatically glancing up at John with a smile across his face. He picks up his fork and digs into his food with gusto, effectively halting any further attempts at conversation. When he sees John staring at him, he explains, "These are my favorite foods. Mycroft picked them to get me to eat."

"Smart man," John remarks wryly, causing Sherlock to smirk at him. 

Sherlock gets done faster than John, and paces around the room anxiously. Appearing fed up, he shoves John's plate out of the way and climbs onto the table. "John," he whispers, fingers coming up to trace John's face. John leans forward to connect their mouths, intent on keeping it chaste. A soft gasp from Sherlock and his resolve is flying out the window. His tongue delves into Sherlock's mouth, tasting the lunch he had just eaten, the taste of decaf tea, and underneath it all, the uniquely-Sherlock taste. Sherlock groans beneath him, and John surges up, pressing him back onto the table. He climbs up a bit, settling on either side of his mate. Sherlock cants his hips desperately, gasping, "John, John, John, yessss!" John's hand is just traveling up Sherlock's abdomen, tracing the home of their children, when two sounds interrupt him-breaking glass and a clearing throat. The breaking glass can clearly be attributed to their plates, which are now shattered into pieces on the floor thanks to Sherlock. 

John glances up to find Mycroft staring at them. "Mycroft, I was just-" his voice trails off, unsure of what to say. It's obviously pretty clear what he was just trying to do. He climbs down off the table, feeling awkward.

"I can never understand why bonded people lack all control when it comes to sex," Mycroft remarks, and John can feel his face flame in response. 

"Lay off, Mycroft," Sherlock responds as he stands and tugs his shirt, trying to remove the wrinkles. 

"Did you eat before you broke my plates?"

"Yes, it was good, thank you."

"In the future, I would suggest you stay off other people's tables when feeling particularly...amorous," Mycroft says, glaring at his brother.

"You're right. In the future, we'll use your office instead," Sherlock says, patting Mycroft's arm as he walks past.

"That was not at all what I was suggesting!" Mycroft protests.

"Just you wait until you get bonded. You'll have office sex, table sex, crazy hot wild monkey sex, all with Lestrade."

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes!" Mycroft's face is currently turning an interesting shade of puce.

"Sherlock, be nice. We're only here because of your brother, remember?"

"Clearly, John. I actually didn't know about the existence of this house, I'm impressed, Mycroft."

"I live to impress you," Mycroft mutters sarcastically.

"Oh, shut up!"

"Wait, this is your house too?" John cuts in before the brothers can start name-calling like children. 

"Yes, this is mine too."

"Not to sound rude, but exactly how many houses do you have?"

"Five and a half,"Mycroft answers.

"How the h**l do you have half a house?" John demands incredulously.

Another smirk. "That was a joke, John. I own five houses, the one you visited for Guy Fawkes Day, this one here out in the country, one in America, one in France, and one in Spain. I'm currently looking into one in the Alps, I've heard that's lovely, but I haven't yet made a decision."

"I'll bet Lestrade would enjoy the Alps," Sherlock remarks offhandedly.

Mycroft shoots him a glare that leaves no doubt as to why his nickname is 'The Iceman.' "Undoubtedly, anything would be nice for him. He doesn't have high standards. Now don't let me hear another word about Lestrade pass your lips, or I will cut all access to Bart's."

Sherlock pouts, but he doesn't challenge Mycroft.

Mycroft leads them to a parlor and pulls out board games. They pass the rest of the evening laughing together over board games, or in some cases raging over them. John wins at Monopoly. They try Cluedo, but when trying to explain to Sherlock that the victim cannot be the murderer, he grows angry and flips the board, then stabs it to the wall. John and Mycroft both roll their eyes at his dramatics. Once they agree to give up Cluedo, Risk comes out. Mycroft skunks them both easily the first round, so John and Sherlock team up against him the second round. They put up a decent fight, but eventually their kingdom falls to him again. "Don't feel bad, Brother Mine. It's my destiny to win, I am 'The British Government' after all."

"It's mine to win Cluedo, but the victim can't be the killer. Haven't they heard of suicide?"

"It is a child's game," Mycroft replies calmly. "Don't mope, brother. It's unbecoming." Sherlock doesn't reply, so Mycroft sighs and offers, "I'll play Operation."

The resulting rush of enthusiasm startles John, who's only felt this level in regard to cases before. Sherlock practically bounces to his feet, digging out the game. In a few moments it becomes clear why Sherlock is so happy- Mycroft is quite terrible at this game. "I give up! " he exclaims after trying ten times for the 'water in the knee' piece. 

"You can't, the game isn't over."

"I concede the victory."

"That's not fair!" 

Mycroft rolls his eyes, and his lips purse very tightly together as Sherlock removes the piece with ease. In a few moments Sherlock has all of the pieces out, and Mycroft has not gotten one. Sherlock gets up, grinning, and he pulls his brother to his feet as well. "Presents now, c'mon, Mycroft, c'mon John!" Mycroft gets yanked down the hall, and John follows the brothers, laughing to himself. Inside a different room is a huge Christmas tree, probably eight feet in Sherlock's estimation, that Mycroft has had Anthea decorate with Christmas decorations. Sherlock laughs once. "Do you still hate Christmas so much, Mycroft?"

"Loathe it. This is only up for you, enjoy it," he answers darkly.

"Perhaps you'd like to burn it tomorrow?" Sherlock suggests.

"To burn a Christmas tree on Christmas Day is probably sacrilegious," Mycroft retorts. "But yes, a lovely idea just the same. Perhaps I'll even dance around it as well."

"Dance naked, you'll definitely get a response," Sherlock tells him.

"I'll get stoned," Mycroft replies, "which is not exactly the response I'm going for. I'm not attractive, you know. If you joined me, people would at least have something nice to look at."

"As wonderful a bonding opportunity as that sounds, I think I'll pass."

"If the two of you are done, we can do Christmas presents," John interrupts.

"Lovely idea," Mycroft agrees, settling into an overstuffed sofa. Sherlock bounds over to the tree, pulling out the gifts. "John, Sherlock, Mycroft, John, John, Mycroft, Sherlock, Mycroft," he begins muttering as he distributes the gifts. When he is done, John is shocked- they each have a verifiable mountain of gifts. "Mycroft first!" Sherlock says, "Here, do this one!" He hands his brother a slightly-haphazardly-wrapped present, grinning proudly. Mycroft opens it slowly.

"Oh! It's beautiful!" He reaches into the box to pull out a gold pocket watch, caressing it gently. "How on Earth did you buy this for me without me noticing? I get all of your credit card statements!"

"I got cash out of the bank and went to France, same way as I did with the pregnancy test. Do you like it?"

"Very much, thank you."

By the time they are done, John has been gifted several medical textbooks he had wanted, a new wallet, a few DVDs, some jumpers, and a date night from Sherlock. Sherlock also had a few medical textbooks, though John expressly forbid him from doing anything to any body part without first consulting him, Molly, or the OB doctor, a gift card to Angelo's, a microscope, and assorted lab equipment that he had been stealing from Bart's on a regular basis. Mycroft had gotten his watch, some candy, some nice stationary, a few new ties, new cufflinks, and a gift that he opened quickly and then promptly hid. He mumbled "thank you" to Sherlock, but he wouldn't say what it was.

John was confused by it, so when they were alone he asked Sherlock. "Oh, it was a CD. Mycroft's guilty pleasure is dancing, he's really good at it, but I don't think he knew that I knew he enjoyed dancing. So I think he was just surprised."

"Oh, that's not at all what I thought it was," John remarked. "I figured it was something to do with Lestrade."

"No, I just tease him about Lestrade to pick on him. The CD was meant to be nice."

They crawl into bed together, John looping an arm over Sherlock so he's cradling his mate close. He falls asleep instantly. At one point, he wakes to find Sherlock has left the bed and is just creeping back in. "Sh'lock?" John slurs sleepily.

"Shhh John, go back to bed. I just wanted to see if Mycroft is dancing to my CD."

"Is he?" John mumbles.

"Yeah. Now go back to sleep."

'Kay," John agrees, and in a few minutes he's back to snoring. Sherlock tries to fall asleep, but he can't. In the end he sneaks out to the Christmas tree, and falls asleep there as he's watching the lights. In the morning, that's where his brother and his mate find him, passed out in front of the tree, using one of John's new jumpers as a pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting to think I know how to write nothing but fluff.


	26. Christmas Corpses

Upon arrival back to 221B, Sherlock hears his phone go off with Irene Adler's ringtone. Curiously, he digs it out. 'Merry Christmas.' it says. He shoves it distractedly into his pocket, most of his interest on the box he has noticed shoved on their front stoop. He picks it up as John fumbles with the key. They go inside, Sherlock still tossing the box- light, though there is definitely something inside- and are instantly waylaid by Mrs. Hudson. After a bit of fussing over John, Sherlock, and both babies, and general well-wishes of Christmas and having plates of cookies thrown at them they are able to excuse themselves and sneak off to their own flat. 

The first thing Sherlock does is to grab a knife off the mantel, currently next to Billy, stabbed through some papers, and cut into the box. He holds the phone up, recognizing it instantly as Ms. Adler's camera phone. She must be in incredible danger to gift it to him for Christmas, because that camera phone was her life. In fact, there is a good probability that she will be found dead before the day is out if he is being given this present. He pulls out his own phone to text Mycroft. 'Irene will probably end up dead before the day is out. -SH'

His phone rings, because Mycroft hates to text, and Mycroft is spending Christmas with Mummy and is probably already looking for an excuse to hide or leave. "What makes you think that?"

"I was just gifted her camera phone. It wouldn't be given to me if she wasn't in grave danger, considering she drugged me to get it back in the first place."

"Did you try any passcodes on it?"

"The generic birthday one, which it's not. I didn't think it was, but sometimes it truly is the most obvious solutions that turn out to be right."

"Quite right. You have the standard three tries, I believe?"

"Yes."

"Good luck," Mycroft says brusquely, and the click of the dial tone lets Sherlock know Mycroft is done with their conversation.

In the hours before their guests come, Sherlock decides to help John make a mince pie. Or at least, he really tries to stay focused and help with this pie, but his new lab equipment is calling to him, so after about ten minutes -and really, all John has to do is put it in the oven- he leaves and begins to set up an experiment. 

"That will be going back to our bedroom!" John calls, and Sherlock waves a hand at him. He's entirely too busy trying to figure out the corrosiveness of the new acid Mycroft gifted him to worry about mundane details like where the experiment will be placed.  
.........................................................................  
In the end, it takes John literally wrestling Sherlock -very gently- into their bathroom with orders in the 'Captain voice' to get ready to finally pull Sherlock away from his experiments. He comes out dressed in that tight purple shirt with black trousers that are equally as tight, an outfit that John loves for reasons that he'd never admit to anyone. He's just toweling off his tousled curls when Mrs. Hudson enters the room, handing a plate of cookies to John to place on the table. Then she kisses them both and carries on like she hadn't just seen them a few hours ago.

Surprisingly, John invited a few more people than Sherlock had realized. Detective Inspector Lestrade shows up, followed by Sally and Detective Inspector Dimmock. Molly is there too. Mycroft was invited, but he's using time with Mummy as the "good son" to hide from Lestrade; Sherlock is pretty sure that is the only benefit Mycroft is currently getting out of being at Mummy's, because he's been there since the morning.

"So how's your wife doing, Lestrade?" Molly questions politely.

"Oh, we're divorced," Lestrade says cheerfully.

"I'm so sorry!" Molly exclaims, horrified. 

"Don't be. It's for the best. We tried to reconcile, and she cheated on me again with the same PE teacher, so we just divorced. Good riddance."

"Oh," Molly replies, not sure of what to say.

"Thank God," Sherlock says, "it's about time you realized she was cheating on you again."

"Been divorced for about two weeks now, I'm a free man!" Lestrade says, laughing. Sherlock stares at him for a moment before turning away- it's obvious to anyone with eyes that Lestrade is hurting worse than he is letting on, but he's trying to pretend he's unaffected so that people don't pity him. "Anyway, your dress is pretty, Molly. Is it new?"

"Yeah, I just bought it. You don't think it's too much?"

"No, I think your boyfriend will appreciate it," Sherlock cuts in. 

"Boyfriend? I don't understand."

"Never play stupid with me, Molly. It's evident you'll be seeing your boyfriend later tonight."

"Sherlock-" John begins, but Sherlock is on a roll.

"Your hair is done in a new style, and you're wearing a new dress. Your lipstick is a brighter hue than you'd usually use, trying to compensate for the size of your lips, which are quite small. Also, you're wearing a push-up bra because you feel your breasts are small. Then there's the presents in the bag. They're all wrapped a slight bit haphazardly, slap-dash, except for one. One particular one is wrapped nicely. Conclusion, you're seeing your boyfriend after this."

"You always say such terrible things," Molly says, tearing up, "every time."

It's the sight of her tears that grounds Sherlock back to reality. He realizes he's hurt a friend, and he shoots John a 'help me!' look. John gives him a look back that tells him he needs to apologize immediately. "Forgive me," Sherlock requests, "I've gone too far. I'm sorry. Merry Christmas, Molly." He leans forward to brush a kiss against her cheek. The moment he does so, his stupid phone goes off with Irene Adler's text alert.

"Oh my god, no, that wasn't me!" Molly announces, looking terrified.

"No, it was me," Sherlock answers.

"My god, really?" 

Sherlock shoots Lestrade a look. "It was my text alert," he clarifies. "Excuse me, I need to take this."

He ducks off into the next room. "John, your mate has a text alert with a woman making pleasure sounds?" Lestrade asks.

"Yeah, it's for a case," John explains, sounding tired. Then he too leaves the room, obviously looking for Sherlock.

"Excuse me a moment," Lestrade mumbles, ducking outside. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and begins to dial a number he memorized long ago, a number he stole off a phone when a PA came to his office to steal his case files. The phone rings, and to his utter amazement the person he is trying to reach actually picks up the phone himself.

"Mycroft Holmes, who is this?"

"Hello Mycroft, it's Detective Inspector Lestrade." Mycroft freezes at the sound of the man's voice, mentally cursing himself for not checking the caller ID before he picked up.

"Detective Inspector. To what do I owe the honor of this phone call?"

"I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas."

"Thank you," Mycroft replies, grabbing his laptop. He navigates effortlessly to the CCTV cameras, bringing up the one in front of 221B since that is the most logical place where Gregory would be. Snow has started to fall, drifting large fat flakes into the man's silver hair. He looks ethereal, like a Christmas angel come to Earth. "To you as well," he tells the man generously, allowing some of the Christmas cheer to overtake him.

"Thank you." There is a moment in which neither man says anything, then Lestrade says, "That was really all I was calling for. Have a lovely night, Mycroft."

"You as well." He hangs up the phone, and smiles blissfully into the fireplace. He has successfully held two phone conversations with Gregory at this point. Granted, the second call was only thirty-four seconds long, but everyone must start somewhere, and this is Mycroft's start. His phone rings again, shattering his peaceful moment. He picks up, palms sweaty. If it's Lestrade again..."Hello?"

"Irene Adler is dead."

Mycroft sighs, peaceful mood completely vanished. Honestly, he should get one bloody day off. "I'll be right there," he promises.

He meets his brother and Molly, who it seems Sherlock has asked to accompany him, to the morgue. Molly flips the sheet back, revealing the battered face of a woman that might possibly be The Woman. "I can't tell," Sherlock says, echoing Mycroft's thoughts. "Can you pull back the rest of the sheet?" Molly does so, and Sherlock stares at this woman's naked body for a moment. "It's her," he decides, and then he sweeps off.

"Mr. Holmes, how did Sherlock know her from- not her face?"

Mycroft takes about two seconds to decide he doesn't want to get into this and simply shoots her a polite smile before he wanders off after his brother. Sherlock has made his way near the waiting room, and both brothers freeze and watch curiously as a doctor approaches a waiting family. A hushed conversation clearly reveals terrible news, as the family starts to cry. "Look at them!" Sherlock says. "Do you ever think there's something wrong with us?"

Mycroft understands what his brother is saying- Irene was an interest. Not a romantic one, not a friendly one, but an interest all the same, and one that for all rights Sherlock should mourn. But his brother is not mourning, and now he wonders if there's something wrong with him. Mycroft sighs and parrots his father's old adage, "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage." The words fall flat, and judging from the look on his brother's face, did nothing to help him. Mycroft fumbles and tries again. "Would you care for a cigarette?" he offers.

Sherlock smirks, though Mycroft isn't looking at him full-on so he only catches it in his peripheral vision as they stand side-by-side. "Smoking indoors, isn't there one of those law things about that? Besides, I'm pregnant."

Now Mycroft is truly at a loss. His eloquent words are rendered useless, his cigarettes are ignored, he has no idea how to comfort his brother anymore. "Merry Christmas," Sherlock says, and he vanishes back toward the morgue. Mycroft pulls out his phone and dials John, knowing he will be a far better comfort than Mycroft. 

Sherlock lopes back home to John. "Hey," he greets as he comes through the door.

"Hey." John can feel a lot of turbulent emotions through their bond, so he sets aside the cookies he was in the process of wrapping. "What happened?"

"She's dead. The Woman."

"Oh." John holds out his arms, inviting Sherlock to come to him. Sherlock does so, going boneless the second he hits John's arms. 

"I'm not upset," he tells John quietly. "What does that mean? Am I not normal?"

"Everyone handles grief their own way," answers John diplomatically. "Some people don't feel it, if they feel they don't know the person very well. Some people mourn as though it's a close family member that passed if it's someone they don't know well. Everyone is different."

"So I'm not a sociopath, I'm just different." Sherlock laughs. "I'll have to remember that to tell Anderson the next time." The mates stand in silence for a moment. "I'm going to take a shower," Sherlock announces, pulling away from John. "Join me?"

"Not today," John says ruefully. "I should be done in the kitchen soon, but I need to get that cleaned." After fifteen minutes, the kitchen is clean and John sets off in search of his mate. "Hey there, what are you doing?" he questions, seeing Sherlock, sitting on the side of the tub wrapped in a robe with a gloomy expression on his face. He sits next to Sherlock on the ledge, ignoring the fact that it's wet.

"I just keep thinking about how quickly she died. She was alive, she was texting me, and now she's dead. And I keep thinking, she was friends with Moriarty."

"What?" John cuts in. They had never talked about this before.

"She told me, one day during text," Sherlock says, "I thought I told you. Anyway, if Moriarty couldn't keep her safe, and he's the world's only Consulting Criminal, what hope do we have? He would've wanted to keep her alive, they were 'friends' as much as Moriarty can have friends. Yet she's on a concrete slab at Bart's. We're safe for now, but for how long?" he questions pessimistically. "How long, John? We know Moriarty wants to kill us. He strapped a bomb to you, he threatened to shoot us both...if Irene's dead, how much longer do we have left?"

"Hey, hey, it's not like that," John replies. "It's possible that Moriarty didn't know she was being killed. Or that he even ordered her to be killed for some reason that we don't know. But we're as safe as we can be. Mycroft is watching out for us, and Greg, and Sally and Dimmock. Mrs. Hudson will beat anyone who dares even breathe a bad word about us, how much more do you think she'd attack a killer for us?" That makes Sherlock laugh. "We are in danger, we know that, but just because Irene is dead doesn't mean we are next."

Sherlock nods after a long moment contemplating John's words. "You're right."

"Should mark it on the calendar," John teases, nudging Sherlock with his elbow.

"Perhaps," then his smile fades, "I just want the chance to bring them into the world," he remarks, hand curling protectively around his belly. "I could die right after that and die happy, knowing that they were here."

"I couldn't," John responds honestly. "I need to know that they're safe, and me being dead wouldn't allow me to be peaceful as I die."

"Alpha," Sherlock says. "I love you," he says suddenly. "I don't know if I've told you lately, but you're nothing like I was afraid you'd be. I used to think I never would have a mate because Alphas were abusive, and that I'd never have children because they'd end up dead at an Alpha's hands. You defied my expectations. You're the best thing to ever happen to me, followed closely by our children."

"I love you too," John answers. He stands and pulls Sherlock to his feet too so they can kiss languidly for a moment. All too soon Sherlock is pulling away for a yawn that nearly cracks his jaw.

"We need to get to bed," John tells Sherlock ruefully.

"I love you," Sherlock says again, leading John out of the bathroom and into their bedroom. They climb in together, Sherlock still wrapped in the robe with his hair shining like diamonds with water droplets. Within moments, John is asleep. Sherlock stares at him for a while, tracing over his features with a light touch, watching this man he loves. Eventually, he too falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of fluff, little bit of Mystrade, little bit of actual canon. Return to canon in the next chapter.


	27. The Americans Return

In the morning, Sherlock is called to a crime scene from Lestrade. He's in a mood when he gets up, and he's not at all ready to deal with Lestrade's team. Consequently he gets into a fight with Anderson the second he arrives and is kicked off the scene. He stalks off in a huff, walking home to try and calm himself down. John is...somewhere, he can't remember, but his Omega side is very angry by the absence of his mate, and the rest of him is angry at Anderson for being so stupid, and Sally for just standing there and not helping him, and Lestrade for kicking him off the scene when he was clearly at no more fault than Anderson was. If anyone deserves to be kicked off, it was Anderson for being a bloody idiot- why couldn't Lestrade see that? 

He's so angry that he almost misses the fact that the door to 221B is open a tiny bit. Well, that's not all right. Someone is breaking into his flat and disturbing his nest and he's already angry. He pulls out a slip of paper and quickly leaves a note for John whenever he deems to come home 'Crime in progress. Please disturb.' He shoves the door open and barges his way inside, cerulean eyes roaming wildly while he deduces. His first matter of concern is Mrs. Hudson, so that is where he automatically looks first. Her flat is obviously empty, and the scratch on the wall concerns him. It's possible she left that scratch, trying to fight off attackers who were carrying her up the stairs. He trails his finger over it, fitting his own fingernail in. It's the perfect size. His eyes dart up the stairs as he imagines her desperately screaming for his help. With no further ado, he hurries up the stairs and enters his own flat.

It's the d**n Americans, that's the first thing he notices, followed quickly by the fact that the one who threatened to shoot John is now holding a gun to Mrs. Hudson's head. Threatening Sherlock's mate is to ask to be killed, to hurt Mrs. Hudson is to beg for injuries yourself. Sherlock resolves to be sure the man gets what he's begging for. 

Mrs. Hudson starts crying the second she sees him. "Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock!" she cries.

"Don't snivel, Mrs. Hudson," he is honestly proud of how strong his voice comes out as he speaks. There is no sign of the fear nor the rage that boils inside of him. "It'll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet. What a tender world that would be."

"I believe you have something that we want, Mr. Holmes," the man with the gun tells him.

"Why don't you ask for it?" he questions calmly. He reaches out toward Mrs. Hudson, intending to touch her, to lend comfort and reassure her that he is there for her, that he will protect her, but he is easily distracted. He folds down her sleeve a tiny bit and uncovers a bruise. It's enough to nearly make him see red. 

"We asked this one, she doesn't seem to know anything," the man says."But you know what I'm asking for, don't you, Mr. Holmes?" the man demands. 

Sherlock doesn't answer for a moment. Still bent down by Mrs. Hudson, he raises his gaze to her shoulder. The sleeve of her top is ripped, and there is a scratch on her lovely face. A quick glance at the hand of the American holding the gun confirms that the man is wearing a ring and that it is bloody. Oh, he will pay. Sherlock will murder him slowly. He hurt Mrs. Hudson, he disturbed Sherlock's nest, and he threatened Sherlock's mate. His blood sings for retribution.

Quickly, he devises a plan and throws himself into it with abandon. 'Carotid artery, skull, eyes, artery, lungs, ribs,' Sherlock thinks, mentally planning exactly where he will hit the man to incur the most damage. "I believe I do," he responds to the man's question. He straightens again before beginning his demands. "First, get rid of your boys."

"Why?" the American asks, pointing his gun away from Mrs. Hudson and at Sherlock himself instead. 

"I dislike being outnumbered." It's true, he prefers to be in an evenly-numbered fight as much as he can help it. If John were here he would take on all the men, no, they would take on all the men together, but it is just him, so he tries to get the men sent out. "It makes for too much stupid in the room."

The American's eyes dart to his men as Sherlock's do. "You two, get into the car."

Sherlock smirks. "And get into the car and drive away. Don't try to trick me, you know who I am, it doesn't work." 

The men leave the room without complaint.

"Stop pointing your gun at me."

"Why? So you can point a gun at me?" 

"I'm unarmed," Sherlock replies truthfully. The bait has been offered, it is simply a matter of hooking the fish.

"Mind if I check?"

"Oh, I insist," Sherlock answers, spreading his arms obligingly. His fish is hooked. The stupid unsuspecting American steps closer to Sherlock, who remains calm for the first moment. He yanks at Sherlock's coat a bit before he moves around to his side, then crosses to Sherlock's back. He pulls at Sherlock's coat again, which makes Sherlock roll his eyes. He pulls the can of pepper spray that Lestrade had recently gifted him from his pocket and squirts the man in the eyes with it. "Moron," he proclaims scathingly as the American falls to the floor with a cry.

He walks to Mrs. Hudson, touching her cheek and reassuring her that she will be alright. Gasping, she nods to reassure him that she will be. 

Satisfied that his landlady will be alright, Sherlock turns his angry gaze back to the American on the floor. His face is murderous.

In that moment, he hears a car pull up to the curb outside. Footsteps alight and stop at the door for just a moment before continuing on. He can feel John's concern for him through their bond. So then, his mate is home. Lucky for the American, John's presence has literally saved this stupid man's life. 

John comes up the stairs and walks into the flat. "What's going on?" His stare moves to the bloody bruised American, who Sherlock has wrestled into a chair and tied and gagged with duct tape as John was coming up the stairs. "What the h**l is happening?" 

"Mrs. Hudson's been attacked by an American, I'm restoring balance to the universe," Sherlock responds coolly from his position on his chair, where he has the gun pointed at the American and holds the phone to his ear. On the inside, he is sending John feelings of joy and happiness at seeing him, and concern over Mrs. Hudson, hoping he interprets them correctly. Bless John, he does.

He is going over to Mrs. Hudson immediately. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson," he says, so gently, "my God, are you alright?" he asks as he sits down next to their still-crying landlady. "Jesus-" John begins, and Sherlock realizes he is trembling with rage, and about thirty seconds away from turning into a wolf and ripping the American limb to limb. And while that would be pleasant to see, it doesn't fit in with Sherlock's plan to make the man suffer, because that would be entirely too quick. 

This is what encourages him to tell John, "Downstairs. Take her downstairs and look after her." John pulls Sherlock into a toe-curling kiss, then demands, "You going to tell me what's going on?" as Mrs. Hudson goes down the stairs. "I expect so, now go," Sherlock mock-scolds. John clumps downstairs without further complaint.

"Lestrade, we've had a break-in at Baker Street." "Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance." He listens to Lestrade's prattled concerns, cutting him off rapidly. "Oh no, no, no, we're fine," he reassures him as he continues to glare at the American. "No, it's the-the burglar. He's got himself rather badly injured." The American stares at him, confused. "Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull," Sherlock tells Lestrade in response to the man's question of what, exactly, is wrong with the burglar. He fully intends to ensure these injuries are present by the time Lestrade arrives, and he makes sure the American knows it. "Suspected punctured lung," he continues. "He fell out of a window." Then he ends the call. In an instant, he has the American pulled to his feet and hurls him, still tied up, out the window. 

Downstairs, John is caring for Mrs. Hudson's scrape as an extremely loud clatter is heard. John and Mrs. Hudson both turn to stare in surprise. "That was right on my bins!" Mrs. Hudson exclaims.

There is an excessive bang as their outside door flies open, and Sherlock is heard dragging something heavy up the stairs. "Well I'm sorry, but you didn't get all the injuries! We're going to need to try again!"

"Sherlock, do you need help?" John pauses in his care of Mrs. Hudson to question, ready to help his mate chuck the rude American out the window again if the need arose. 

"I got it John, but thanks!" 

The bangs are repeated a few more times, and then silence abruptly as sirens fill the air. Lestrade is the first one out of the car, and he moves quickly to where Sherlock is standing proudly by a significantly-battered body. The body is loaded into an ambulance and rushed to Bart's. In the midst of this, something odd occurs to Lestrade, and he turns to Sherlock. "And exactly how many times did he fall out of the window?" 

"Oh, it's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector," answers Sherlock honestly, knowing Lestrade will do nothing to punish him. "I lost count." 

It is as close as he will come to admitting his guilt, and even Lestrade seems to realize that, because his only response is a soft, "oh," and a strange look Sherlock's direction.

He jogs off, knowing that Sherlock will be angry at him for this, but just the same knowing it needs to be done. He pulls out his mobile and dials that number again. 

"Hello, Detective Inspector."

"Hi, Big Brother. Listen, you may want to come down here. Your brother has bloody chucked someone out of a window, multiple times."

"He's done what?" Mycroft's voice is full of rage, and it sends shivers up and down Lestrade's spine. Yup, that Big Brother bloke is one terrifying Alpha. "I'll be there immediately."

Lestrade takes that as his cue to leave, after ensuring that both Mrs. Hudson and John are fine. John is clearly agitated. He's morphed into a wolf and isn't letting anyone near his mate. He growls as Lestrade checks on Mrs. Hudson, but he doesn't move. "I'm fine," Sherlock promises as Lestrade's uncertain gaze moves to him. "John is too, he's just upset right now. He'll calm down soon."

Lestrade nods and vacates the premises. His friends are fine and so are the twins, that's all that matters. He will let Big Brother deal with the aftermath of this, because it is very likely Sherlock could end up in jail. 

Mycroft rushes into the room mere seconds after Lestrade's car pulls away. His eyes immediately lock onto his brother's, and then fall to the growling wolf in front of him. "Hello, John," he greets evenly.

A sharp snarl is his only response.

A bit timidly, Mycroft stretches out his hand, though he makes no move toward the anxious wolf. John approaches and sniffs him curiously, then he stops his growling. He licks Mycroft's hand, then walks behind him and head-butts him closer to Sherlock. Mycroft chuckles a bit. "Yes, alright, John. Just trying to make sure I wouldn't lose a body part in the process of assuring myself my younger brother is alright."

"I'm fine," Sherlock states.

"What happened?"

The whole story is flowing out of Sherlock in a rush, and by the end of it, Mycroft is glad his brother threw the agent out of the window, because he is tempted to do it, too. "I told them to be careful because you were pregnant! Stupid Americans never want to listen! They will be recalled immediately," he vows, furious. "I will speak with the Director and threaten to withhold all possibilities of freelance work within the CIA if he doesn't pull them off the Irene Adler case instantly. And he will, because he will not want to lose me." He paces outside, and they can hear him for a moment berating someone on his phone, and then the door falls shut and his voice is muffled once more.

All the fight and adrenaline rushes out of Sherlock at once, and he slumps to the ground. "Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson screams. Mycroft comes running back in, still screaming at someone, and between Mrs. Hudson and him they manage to get Sherlock onto the couch. John crowds in close, whimpering as he noses at his mate.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock repeats over and over as he rubs his fingers through John's beautiful blonde-brown fur. "Just tired. All my fight is gone now." John whines again and drops his head onto Sherlock's chest. "It's alright," Sherlock coos, "we're fine. We're fine." His other hand curls around his babies. "We're fine," he repeats for their benefit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, Lestrade's referring to Mycroft as an Alpha ("Yup, that Big Brother bloke is one terrifying Alpha") was done on purpose. I believe that Mycroft would present himself as an Alpha as much as possible, and so Lestrade just believes that he is one. That's the reason why I've said how Mycroft was Alpha-like in the past.


	28. Cracking the Code

Sherlock wakes from his couch with the feeling that something is out of place in his nest. There is a presence that is not welcome. Cautiously-he has to be, now that it's not just his life on the line- he palms the knife from the mantel and begins the pain-staking process of checking his nest. John is upstairs, he knows that through the bond. He moves back to check in the twins' bedroom and flings the door open. A startled gasp escapes his lips. Irene Adler is lying on the floor! Last thing Sherlock knew she was dead, and now she is here asleep in his flat. He doesn't like it, and his lips pull back in a snarl at the sleeping woman.

Irene startles awake suddenly. "Sherlock," she purrs in greeting, stretching out her arms above her head. "Good morning, handsome."

"How did you get in here?" he asks, still pointing the knife at her.

"Put that thing down, darling," she scolds lightly, standing and pressing his hand down toward the floor. "Let's talk business."

Sherlock has a sudden reminiscing of the kind of business she deals in and frowns. "I don't want to do business with you, thank you. Please feel free to see yourself out."

She laughs. "Not that kind of business. John would be quite angry with me, I believe. Unless he wanted to join in, of course."

Sherlock doesn't bother to respond to that. As Irene slips past him, he yells, "John! We have a visitor!"

John flies down the stairs in an instant, awake and alert. "Irene. You're looking...surprisingly well, considering last time we saw you you were on a concrete slab."

"Yes, well, I had to throw the Americans off my trail. Thanks for tossing them out the window, by the way," she says, pinning Sherlock with her gaze.

"I didn't do it for you," he answers coolly.

"But that's not why you're here, to thank us," John realizes. "So what are you here for?"

"I need Sherlock's help. There's a code that I've intercepted, and I need his help to crack it."

"So, what's the code?"

"I need the phone." She holds out her hand demandingly for the phone. After a moment's pause, Sherlock places the phone into her hand. She swiftly enters the passcode, then frowns at them both. "It's not working."

"No, because it's a duplicate I had made, into which you just entered the numbers 1058." He smugly reaches inside the pocket of his dressing gown, pulling out the real cameraphone. He enters the numbers 1058 in, and frowns when it doesn't work. 

Irene leers at him. "I told you that camera phone was my life. I know when it's in my hand."

"Oh, you're rather good." Sherlock cannot help but be the tiniest bit impressed by this woman, despite everything. Begrudgingly he offers her the real phone, their fingers brushing the tiniest bit as she takes it from him.

"You're not so bad yourself." She smiles at him, holding his gaze until he breaks away, feeling a light blush across his cheeks though he doesn't understand why.

"Hamish," John says, and the comment is so off-the-wall both Sherlock and Irene turn to stare at him. "John Hamish Watson. Just in case you were looking for baby names."

Sherlock wrinkles his brow in confusion. John is...he stares at him, deducing, and lights upon the answer a moment later. Jealous. John is jealous. He wants Sherlock to himself, and Sherlock is intended to oblige him because he doesn't like the naked lady very much. 

"There was a man-an MOD official. I knew what he liked. One of them was showing off. He kept telling me this email would save the world. Naturally, I took a picture of it." 

"Naturally," John mutters under his breath.

Irene calls up the photo on the real phone and they stare at it together. It is a mixture of numbers and letters, in a code that makes no sense to Sherlock as it is written now. "What can you do, Mr. Holmes? Go on, impress the girl."

Sherlock is aware of her leaning toward him He begins searching through his Mind Palace on tips to help him break the code, whirling through potential combinations until he lights upon something that seems to work. The moment he solves the code he feels Irene's lips brush his cheek, but she has already pulled back so he ignores it. A quick glance at John shows he's seen it too, his hands are tight enough on the handle of his teacup it's a miracle the thing hasn't snapped off yet. "There's a margin for error but I believe there's a 747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at 6:30 in the evening for Baltimore. Not sure how this could save the world, but there you have it." He hands the phone back to her.

"I would have you on this table until you begged for mercy twice," Irene tells him in response, with a flirtatious smirk at John since she's flirting with his Omega.

"I've never begged for mercy in my life," Sherlock answers calmly.

"Twice," Irene emphasizes.

Sherlock goes over to John's laptop-conveniently located by John- and very nearly crawls into his mate's lap as he's checking the flight details. "Flight double oh-seven," Sherlock mutters. "There's something familiar about that." On the case now, he pushes himself up so he can pace. He makes it all the way to the mantel, replaying a scene in his Mind Palace. Mycroft had come, had answered the phone, and had returned to the room saying, "Bond Air is go." The words replay in Sherlock's mind, but they are enough to make his blood run cold. If Mycroft is involved in this, he has just made a grave error.

Unbeknownst to either man, Irene has sent a text message. '747 tomorrow 6:30 pm Heathrow.'

Somewhere near the Big Ben, Jim Moriarty glances at his phone as it chimes. He reads the message and smirks, searching through his contacts for the right number to forward this information to. He has never had the opportunity to use this contact before, and he relishes the chance. He sends a new message: 'Jumbo jet. Dear me, Mr. Holmes, dear me.' Then he jumps in a cab and rattles off directions. His mate will be so pleased to hear how he's ruined the Ice Man's life now.

Back inside 221B, Sherlock has gotten rid of Irene. 'Gotten rid of' being code for he grabbed her arm and just about threw her out the door, shutting it firmly behind her. John is on him the minute the door shuts, causing Sherlock to grab the handle for support as his knees buckle. To his surprise, John catches him, lifting him smoothly in the air and carrying him from the room. John's mouth is fastened onto their bond bite, and Sherlock is torn between wanting John's mouth on his lips or on their bond bite. John takes the decision out of his hands by smoothly kissing up Sherlock's neck and across one prominent cheekbone until he's connected their lips. Sherlock releases a deep throaty growl as John's hands travel across his ribcage, dancing lightly. He tries to pull John's shirt off-he loves the sight of John's shirtless body as much as he loves locked room murders- when his keen hearing catches the sound of someone knocking on the door.

John has evidently heard it too, because he stops brushing his hands across Sherlock's ribs, freezing like a deer caught in the headlights. "If it's that woman again-" John mumbles, fire in his eyes as he untangles himself from his mate. 

"If so, be sure to lock the door this time," Sherlock calls.

John pulls open the door to the flat and is shocked to find one of the same men that had taken them to Buckingham Palace. "Hello," he greets politely, though internally he deflates at the knowledge that he and Sherlock will not be able to enjoy their alone time. "Come to take us away again?"

"Yes indeed," the man answers, holding out two tickets for John. John takes them, noting instantly that they are for the flight Sherlock had told Irene about. 

"Sherlock?" John calls regretfully.

Sherlock joins them a moment later, carefully put back together. There is a rather large mark from John biting him on his neck, and he quickly fastens his scarf overtop it. John growls low in his throat at the idea of his mark not being able to be seen, and Sherlock kisses him gently to placate him. 

He takes the ticket John hands him, leaning close to murmur just for John's ears, "When we return, you should continue what we were doing. I rather enjoyed being carried like that." Then, like nothing had happened, he straightened his coat and moved out the door, following behind the employee who came to collect them.


	29. Coventry Conundrum

Once inside the car, Sherlock begins turning over the ticket in his hands. "There's going to be a bomb in a passenger jet," he tells John. He has the feeling their escort already knows what he has deduced, so he doesn't bother to lower his voice. "The British and American governments know about it, but rather than expose the source of that information they're going to let it happen. Coventry all over again. The wheel turns. Nothing is ever new." The last sentence is practically spat with disdain.

"But all of those lives-" John begins, pondering the horror. As a doctor and an Army man, he hates the idea of what Sherlock is implying. All those innocent civilian lives lost...Sherlock says nothing in response, and John gets lost in his head for a while, picturing the terror of what is to come.

When they arrive at Heathrow airport, they find the American waiting for them. He is clearly battered and in pain, and John glances at Sherlock with a smile. His mate can clearly defend himself. 

"Well, you're looking all better? How ya feeling?" Sherlock asks, making John laugh as he realizes that Sherlock is imitating a terrible American accent. 

The man glares at them both. "Like putting a bullet in your brain...sir." Sherlock laughs, moving up the walkway. "They'd pin a medal on me if I did, sir." The American says as an off-handed remark. 

"I don't know who would, but I can guarantee you the British Government would pitch a fit," John answers. He moves so he's blocking Sherlock's body, making it clear that a threat to Sherlock is a threat to him, and he will protect Sherlock unto death.

They board the plane together. John stares around at all the passengers, realizing that something feels off. "They're all dead," he tells Sherlock.

Sherlock stares at the bodies, looking lost. 

"The Coventry conundrum." Both men jump together, John leaping in front of Sherlock with a snarl before realizing the voice is Mycroft's. He relaxes his stance a tad, still ready to jump into action if necessary. "What do you think of my solution? The flight of the dead."

"The plane blows up midair, everyone dies, yet no one loses their life," Sherlock breathes.

"Neat, don't you think?" Mycroft asks smugly.

Sherlock nods. "How will it fly?" He barrels on without a pause for Mycroft to answer. "Unmanned aircraft, hardly new," he answers, a hint of frustration with himself sneaking into his voice.

"It won't fly. It will NEVER fly," Mycroft responds, tone oozing barely-contained fury. "The terrorist cells know that we know about the bomb. Just earlier today I was contacted with a taunting text from a friend of yours."

"A friend? I don't have friends," Sherlock replies scathingly.

"An enemy," Mycroft retorts.

"Yes, James Moriarty sends his love." Unbeknownst to Sherlock, Irene is on the plane. She has obviously entered behind them. John decides to place the more obvious threat to his front and shoves Sherlock out of the way yet again so he can protect him from Irene. Mycroft is angry, yes, but ultimately John trusts that Mycroft will not hurt his brother. Irene is a wild card, and John doesn't trust her.

"I had all this stuff," she continues, holding out the camera phone with the picture that started this whole mess in the first place, "and didn't know what to do with it.Thank God for the Consulting Criminal. He gave me a lot of advice about how to manipulate the Holmes boys."

Whatever she's prattling on about seems to have struck something deep within Mycroft, his face slowly drains of color. Sherlock's eyes are darting wildly, and John's hands clench and unclench menacingly. He has never struck a lady before, but for her, he is about to make an exception.

"Do you know what he calls you?" she questions, and Sherlock isn't sure who she's talking to. "The Ice Man," she says, her gaze settling on Mycroft, "and The Virgin."

Sherlock can't help it, he laughs. "Clearly his information is a bit out of date, right John?"

John lets out a humorless chuckle. He's still waiting on the other shoe to drop. 

A second later it does, though thankfully it's not intended for Sherlock. "Here's a list of my demands for protection and my security," she tells Mycroft, holding out an envelope to him. Mycroft reaches forward to take it, then pulls back again. He settles himself into one of the plane seats-the only empty one- and begins to read. His eyebrow steadily climbs higher and higher as he does.

"You know, Jim didn't even ask for anything," Irene tells them conversationally. "I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now that's my kind of man."

Sherlock makes a quiet gagging noise just for the sake of it.

"And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees," Mycroft replies, folding the paper and stuffing it back into the envelope. He sighs, clearly resigned. "Nicely played."

"No." The word falls out of Sherlock's mouth without warning, though he throws it out there confidently.

"What?" Mycroft stares at him.

"I said no. Very close, but no." He moves toward her. "When we first met, you told me a disguise was a self-portrait. How true you were. The combination of the safe was your measurements, but this, this is far more intimate." He takes the phone from her hand, and she releases it without a fight. "This is your heart."

"Do you honestly believe I'm in love with you?" Irene scoffs.

"No," he replies, "but you do."

"Everything I've said tonight, it wasn't real," Irene offers desperately. "I was just playing the game."

"I know," he replies softly, typing a code into the phone. "And this is just losing." 

He turns the phone so that John is able to see the words 'I am SHER-LOCKED' before the phone opens. He glares at Irene, feeling that she has put yet another move on his mate. 

Sherlock holds the phone out to Mycroft. "There you are, brother. I'm hoping the contents of this phone will make up for any inconvenience I have caused you."

"I'm certain they will," Mycroft replies, taking the phone and beginning to scroll through.

"I'm going home, with John," Sherlock says. "Make sure I'm not disturbed."

"And if England is in danger?" Mycroft questions with a smirk.

"Let her burn, and cry 'God save the Queen,' then make yourself a cup of tea and have a cigarette," Sherlock retorts. "I'm sure you'll manage without me for a while." He turns to his mate now. "Take me home, John."

They are quiet the entire ride home, but the second they clear the doorway Sherlock comes alive. "Catch me if you can, John" he calls over his shoulder as he races up the stairs. He slams the door the moment before John can shove his way inside, so John is forced to pull it open and slam it again. He prays Mrs. Hudson is out for the evening.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair, grinning mischievously, as John enters the sitting room. He pounces, growling playfully at his mate. Sherlock is quickly pinned to the chair and John straddles him. 

The first thing he does is to pull of the scarf and make his bite from earlier a bit brighter, then make a larger mark above the scarf so it can't be hidden.

"Possessive," Sherlock observes breathlessly.

"With good reason," John responds.

"She's nothing," Sherlock replies, shoving John back a moment so John can see his face. "There is only you, John."

"That's good," John says with a leer. "Bedroom. Now," he snarls a moment later as his fingers work on Sherlock's shirt. He swoops Sherlock up from the couch, carrying him with ease. Sherlock gasps, then giggles breathlessly with delight. John lays his tenderly on the bed, though he still pins Sherlock's arms to the sides. "Have I told you lately how much I love you?"

"Not within the past sixty seconds, no," Sherlock answers sassily. John bites him for that, nipping at the skin and leaving marks only he and Sherlock will see. "You can tell me again, though," Sherlock offers magnanimously. 

"How generous of you," John comments as he lavishes kisses along Sherlock's collarbone. "I love you. Everything about you. I love your belly," he swoops down and kisses Sherlock's abdomen, then laves it with his tongue, "and I adore the way you're round with my children. I love your scars, they show how strong you are," a lot of time is then dedicated to kissing each scar, leaving no doubt in Sherlock's mind that he means it, "and I love your mind. So much. You're brilliant, and I love that about you. I love that you solve crimes, and I love that you're the world's only Consulting Detective."

"Shut up and kiss me, John," Sherlock protests.

John does. 

They spend a lot of time together that night, and even once the sex is done they cuddle into each other's arms, whispering to each other their declarations of love and reaffirming their bond. It is nothing like Sherlock ever thought he would have, a mate with children on the way, and he is struck with how wonderful his Alpha is for him. It astounds him now to think that there was ever a point in his life where he thought that he wouldn't want this, wouldn't want John or the future they're sharing. 

He feels a pang of sadness as he thinks of his brother and how alone he is. Mycroft doesn't realize all the good that comes from having a mate, he sees only the bad. Sherlock hopes that someday his brother can find someone too.

John kisses him and Sherlock is again captured with how much he loves this man. "You are the best thing that has ever happened to me," he tells John.

"Yeah, right back at you," John answers.

This strikes them both as funny, and they lie in bed giggling together for a while. "No, but seriously, I love you," Sherlock says.

"I love you too," John replies. "I always will. I swear it."


	30. Announcing the Twins

Mycroft's phone rings at eight in the morning. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's John. The twins have been born. They're healthy and beautiful and Sherlock is doing wonderful. Will you be stopping by Baker Street?"

"I'll be there in a few minutes. I must admit I had my doubts about a home birth, but everything worked out alright?"

"Yes, they're all fine. I'm a father, Mycroft."

"Yes, I am aware," Mycroft replies. He climbs into his car and tells the driver to set off for Baker Street. "ETA 10 minutes," Mycroft reports. "Don't worry, I'm not wearing my scent blockers. I was working from home in anticipation of this call."

"Wonderful. We'll see you soon." John hangs up.

Mycroft leans forward, unable to keep the smile off his face as he tells his driver, "Sherlock has had the twins. I'm an uncle."

"Congratulations, sir."

"Get there within six minutes and I'll give you a raise."

"Yes, sir," his driver answers. Mycroft grins in the privacy of his car where no one can see him as the car speeds toward Baker Street.  
.........................................................................  
'Sebastian, Murray, and Gregson stop  
Babies born stop Call me stop  
JW'

Sebastian looks up from reading the telegram and jogs off for the phone, eager to hear about his godchild and their sibling, and of course his best friend and his mate. He dials the numbers excitedly, pacing anxiously as the phone rings. He puts the phone on speakerphone as Murray and Gregson catch up, all of them eagerly surrounding the phone.

"Hello?"

"John!"  
.........................................................................  
'Molly,  
Babies born. Healthy. Come over when you get off your shift.  
-SH'

Molly smiles from where she's taken a short break, staring down at the dead body she was working on. "Let's get you and your friends done with so we can see those babies," she says, setting back to work with a new fire in her body.  
.........................................................................  
"Hi, Mom, it's John. Just calling to let you know that the babies were born."

"Oh John, that's wonderful! I'll tell your father!" There is a pause, and then, "He says congratulations. We were planning to come see you some point next month, let's iron out the details soon, alright. We're just so happy for you!"

"Thanks Mom. I'll talk with Sherlock and get back to you."

"Okay well I'll let you go. I know you have other people you need to call. I'm so excited to be a grandmother, and I can't wait to see my grandbabies!"

"I can't wait, either. Love you Mom."

"Love you too. Bye, son."

Mrs. Watson hangs up the phone and looks to her husband. "Our babies are all grown up now."

He smiles, taking her hand. "We're at a new stage in life, my darling. We're grandparents now."  
.........................................................................  
'Lestrade, babies born, come immediately. -SH'

'You're lucky it's my day off. -GL'

'No, I'm not. You would jump at seeing us either way. -SH'

'Nothing gets by you, does it? See you soon. -GL  
.........................................................................  
"Hi Harry and Clara, it's John. Just wanted to let you guys know you're aunts now! Um, Sherlock and the twins are doing fine. Yeah. Call me back when you get the chance, okay? Love you guys!"  
.........................................................................  
"Hello Mummy."

"Sherlock?"

"No, Mycroft. Yes of course it's Sherlock! Ouch John that was unnecessary! The twins have been born, you're a grandmother, congratulations."

"Thank you my dear. I'll come see you tomorrow to give you two some time to adjust."

"Alright Mummy that sounds-shhhh it's alright baby, no need to cry. Now you've got your brother crying...there is really no need to cry, you haven't even witnessed a murder scene yet-I'll call you later Mummy."

The click of the phone lets Mrs. Holmes know her son has hung up, and she chuckles to herself as she begins making plans to see him tomorrow.  
.........................................................................  
'Donovan. -SH'

'Yes, Sherlock?- SD'

'Congratulations, you're a godmother. -SD'

'Yeah! :) How r u? -SD'

'Fine. The twins are beautiful. You'll come see them once you get that crime scene wrapped up, right? -SH'

'Wouldn't miss it. Case might take a while to wrap up, if not tonight then I'll come tomorrow after work. -SD'

'See you whenever. -SH'  
.........................................................................  
"Mrs. Hudson!"

"She went out, remember, Sherlock?"

"No, I don't remember. I was, quite possibly, preoccupied with pushing babies out of my body when this discussion in question took place."

"She went to get us some baby diapers, because I forgot. God bless that woman."

"Oh. Well as soon as she gets back let her know that babies are born."

"I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends 'Courting Sherlock!' A big thank you to everyone who took this journey with me for the past eight months, I hope you've all enjoyed this story as much as I have. 
> 
> Thanks to johhlockluv3r, who provided both the prompt and excellent suggestions when my muse gave up on me. I hope you loved this story, and that is was everything you wanted!
> 
> Look for 'Courting Mycroft' coming soon. I'll comment on here to let you guys know when it's been posted.


End file.
